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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25014157">to bask in your warmth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerine_skye/pseuds/tangerine_skye'>tangerine_skye</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Somebody Save Them, oh boy is it soft geralt, past yennefer/geralt, this is very self-indulgent but i have no regrets, two idiots trapped in a hut together</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:06:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>45,300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25014157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerine_skye/pseuds/tangerine_skye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A short time after the argument that concluded the quest for the golden dragon, while searching for a muse, Jaskier’s path entwines with Geralt’s once more. What ensues includes an apology, an abandoned hut, a shared bed, too many cockatrices, and a mysterious pellar in the woods. Along the way, Jaskier realises that there is something that grows gradually between them. It can be found in a soft smile, caught in a wandering gaze, and occasionally reveals itself from the corner of an eye when it believes the other is not looking. </p><p>(canon divergent, based mostly off the tv series, with slight influences from the games)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>213</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. apology</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The night is cold, a sudden chill descending with the arrival of darkness and the suggestion of a storm on the horizon. It is a chill that seeps into everything, creeping beneath the tavern door, touching against the stone, settling into the nooks and crannies of the windowpane. The tavern fire engages it in a valiant battle and appears somewhat successful, evident by the flush of cheeks and coats thrown over chairs.</p><p>Jaskier sits in one corner, propped on a stool, strumming an old folk song on his lute. His voice strains against the thrum of the crowd, roaring conversations with the interjection of raucous laughter and the slamming of fists (and drinks) on tables. Only a few people nod appreciatively, feet tapping along to the rhythm, while the rest remain preoccupied.</p><p>A gust of chilled air slips through the door and trembles the flame of a nearby lamp as a man stumbles outside. If you listened closely, you would be able to hear the faint sound of retching. A couple sitting at one of the tables have become enraged during a card game, the woman screeching at her partner as he throws his cards in her face and storms off. Another couple beside them are kissing aggressively, completely oblivious to the commotion. A drunk man snores peacefully at a table in the corner, shrouded by darkness.</p><p>Jaskier concludes his song with finesse, a twist of his wrist and a grin. There is scattered applause and he bows gracefully, tucking the lute under his arm.</p><p>It is at this moment, that the door to the inn opens again. The chill returns with vengeance, a sharper wind this time, enough to extinguish the closest flames completely, leaving behind a thin trail of smoke that curls upwards. The patrons closest to the door shiver, pulling their arms close across their bodies.</p><p>A hooded figure steps inside. The moon illuminates him from behind, a shadowed silhouette against the cold light, so far untouched by the warm glow of the tavern fire. As he moves past the threshold, someone shuts the door behind him with a muttered curse against the night air. The figure slowly makes his way through the tavern, slipping through the crowd with ease. He seems an enigma amidst the crowd; a touch of calm against the unruly, moderation against insobriety. He is a shadow and the light bends around his form.</p><p>The man has a sword strapped to his back and as he turns his head slightly, a wisp of white hair slips from beneath the hood, peeking out from the darkness. Jaskier, who has been watching the entrance with amused curiosity, feels the blood freeze in his veins. His heart shudders to a stop, breath catching in his throat as his fingers clench tighter around the neck of his lute.</p><p>Surely not. It cannot be him.</p><p>The man, having ventured across the room, finds himself a vacant chair close to the fire. As he sits down, the hood slips away from his head. The fire illuminates an unknown face – an older man with a scraggly beard and dark eyes.</p><p>Jaskier exhales a quivering breath. He stands straight, regaining his composure as he surveys the room with a smile that belies more confidence than he is currently experiencing.</p><p>“Any requests, fine folk?” he asks.</p><p>Someone shouts out the name of a folk song, while another requests a ballad. One woman close to where he is performing raises her drink unsteadily.</p><p>“Play us something new, bard.”</p><p>This call rallies a few others who heartily express their agreement with stamping feet and loud belches.</p><p>“As you wish,” Jaskier replies and readies his lute.</p><p>A thumb plucks a solitary string, a chord follows, and he begins to sing. They are words that have played in his mind for a while now and at first, they fall so easily from his lips. He notices the way conversations falter and lull, and more eyes turn in his direction, enraptured in a way they had not been before. The woman who had suggested the request first is swaying in her seat, a gentle smile on her face as her eyes glaze over.</p><p>There is a pause in the music, and Jaskier hesitates, his words suddenly failing him. He strums the lute idly for a moment and then, that too, subsides. The words are a memory lost on the tip of his tongue, not yet ready to be explored. The woman stops swaying and looks at him, irritation catching in the displeased curl of her mouth.</p><p>“What’s that then? That it?”</p><p>Jaskier swallows. “Apologies ma’am, the song is not quite finished yet. It requires some more work.”</p><p>The woman snorts and takes a long sip of her drink.</p><p>“Shame. It sounded all righ’ until then.”</p><p>The conversations around the room begin again and Jaskier is left to mull in his own displeasure. His gaze returns to the white-haired man who sits by the fire.</p><p>There is a tug on his heart, a yearning that he desperately wishes he could quell. He has not seen Geralt since their argument during the hunt for the golden dragon and it has left him feeling hollow and directionless in a way he has never felt before.</p><p>Jaskier sighs, running his fingers through his hair and sweeping it away from his face. There is a pain that settles between his eyes and he presses a thumb to the bridge of his nose, hoping to soothe it.</p><p>The pain persists and Jaskier does not sing again that night.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After a restless sleep, Jaskier spends the next morning slumped against a chair in the tavern, staring moodily at the dark lines running through the wood on the table. His eyes follow their direction, the whorls and twists as they move in imperfect patterns etched into the wood. A heaviness has settled over his heart of late, as though it has had enough of falsifying cheer and is ready to embrace the grief that clings to the recesses of his mind. It pulls at him, the way memories tend to do, offering little solace in reliving the past and yet imploring him to do so anyway. He ponders the way things might have been different if he had just said that one word, or held his tongue in the right place, or – there are too many possibilities that will never come to fruition and exploring them only deepens his gloom.</p><p>At the heart of it all, there is a sense of longing. He misses the way Geralt would converse softly with Roach when he thought no one could hear, he misses the way his lips would sometimes pull upwards just slightly by the corner, the closest thing Geralt would allow to a smile. He misses the way Geralt would tie his hair out of his face when he was meditating, and the way that somehow, without fail, he always managed to miss a few strands of hair. Incredibly, Jaskier finds that he even misses the way he would be woken by Geralt’s snores during the night, though, he would rather kiss a rotfiend then ever say that aloud.</p><p>Two men sit down beside Jaskier and begin to talk in barely concealed hushed tones. </p><p>“Tha’s right, she said her son jus’ disappeared,” says one of them, a young man with bright blue eyes.</p><p>“Not Symko, he would never leave his ma!” replies the other, an older man with a short black beard.</p><p>“She reckons somethin’ might’ve taken him on the road.”</p><p>“It’s true, somethin’s out there. Across the ol’ pass near Honeysuckle farm they had their heifers snatched one night. Reckons a monster came. Didn’ see nuthin’ though.”</p><p>The blue-eyed man widens his eyes.</p><p>“Could be the same.”</p><p>“Could be. Somethin’ keen on beef might’ve got a taste for human flesh.”</p><p>Jaskier circles the rim of his mug with a solitary finger as an idea forms in his head.</p><p>He sidles closer, leaning across the table in what he hopes is a fairly nonchalant and non-threatening way. Perhaps he misjudges his subtlety, as both men narrow their eyes at his approach.</p><p>“Hello my good fellows!” Jaskier says, refusing to allow the cold looks to dissuade him, “I couldn’t help but overhear your interesting tale. Would you mind sharing more of your insight?” He smiles encouragingly.</p><p>The young man juts his chin forward.</p><p>“What’s it to you then?”</p><p>Jaskier thumbs the edge of the table.</p><p>“Oh, it’s just that, see, I’m a bard, and I’m always on the lookout for heroic stories of daring and discovery!”</p><p>The men both appear unconvinced, so Jaskier switches tactic.</p><p>“And of course, there are usually at least a few words spared in song for the tellers of such tales. So, would you two fine men happen to be the tellers of such tales?”</p><p>Jaskier does not miss the way they both exchange a quick, hungry glance. A desire for fame is truly the equaliser of all men.</p><p>“Spose we could spare a few details,” says the man with the beard. He leans closer, elbows pressed against the table. He stinks of rotten fish and salt, but Jaskier is used to these kinds of village folk and has developed a strong stomach against unpleasant smells. Besides, nothing could be quite as stomach churning as Geralt covered in the stench of the selkiemore.</p><p>“Here’s the thing,” the bearded man continues, “Ma Shep says her poor son has been missing for a week now. He was off to Munie’s farm over by the next village, but he never came back. She sent his little cousin over to find out what was happenin’, but Tenzo came back without even makin’ it to the village.”</p><p>“Tenzo won’t even talk to anyone ‘bout it,” the younger man pipes up. “Just sits in the corner of Ma Shep’s house with nary a word. O’course Ma Shep is too frightened now to make the journey herself.”</p><p>“Rumour is that Tenzo found the dead body of his cousin.”</p><p>“Or a monster snatched his voice.”</p><p>“Some folk even say Tenzo was turned into a monster himself!”</p><p>Jaskier nods to all of this and offers a promising smile.</p><p>“Thank you for the story gentlemen, it will do well in an epic tale. I must go talk to others to get the full story, but I will absolutely be including your names in the song when it is written.”</p><p>The men share a smile and Jaskier makes his leave.</p><p>“Good day!” he says with an extravagant wave of his hand, slipping out of the door.</p><p> </p><p>A few moments later there is a muffled curse as the bearded man turns to his friend.</p><p>“We didn’t tell ‘im our names!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier finds Ma Shep at a farm pressed into the edge of the small town. A flurry of chickens greet him at the gate, flapping and squawking as he pushes his way past them. A lone horse slouches by a feed trough, chewing lazily on some oats. Ma Shep stands by the clothesline, a basket of wet clothes balanced on her hip as she takes them one by one, wrings them out, and drapes them across the taut string.</p><p>“Hello there!” Jaskier says jovially, gracing her with his most lavish smile. Ma Shep is a weathered woman, short and squat with suspicion clearly advertised in her narrowed eyes. Wrinkles map her skin, tugging her mouth down into a permanent scowl which seems to only deepen as Jaskier approaches.</p><p>“What do you want?”</p><p>“My name is Jaskier, I hoped you might have a minute to chat?”</p><p>“I’m busy,” she says shortly, turning back to her task.</p><p>Jaskier reaches a hand up to help as the shirt she was attempting to hang sags too low. She looks at him sideways and sighs.</p><p>“Alright, what is it then?”</p><p>“I had a few questions about Symko.”</p><p>Her shoulders droop at that, and the scowl on her face softens into something sadder, more pensive.</p><p>“I don’t really want to talk about it again. I already told that other man-”</p><p>Jaskier looks at her.</p><p>“Which other man might that be, ma’am?”</p><p>She busies herself with smoothing out some wet wrinkles in a cloth and pins it to the line. A drop of water slips off and lands on her cheek and she brushes it away quickly with a flick of her hand.</p><p>“He was here just a moment ago. Tall, tough handsome fella’. Bit spooky though with those eyes of his.”</p><p>Jaskier feels something akin to dread laced with irrepressible hope twist in his gut.</p><p>“Did he have white hair? A medallion around his neck?”</p><p>The woman looks at him with a flash of recognition and nods.</p><p>“Yes, yes that’s him! Know him do you?”</p><p>“We are uh, old friends,” Jaskier says, fiddling with the cuff on his sleeve. The horse by the trough snorts derisively.</p><p>“Then maybe you should talk to him. He’s already got the contract and he’d be on his way by now.”</p><p>Jaskier muses on it for a moment and then-</p><p>“Do you know which way he went?” he asks. Ma Shep gestures towards the road that leads out from the village.</p><p>“Follow the path I told him. He shouldn’t be long gone.”</p><p>Jaskier thanks her quickly and hurries on his way, the flurry of chickens scurrying out from his feet.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The town is quiet this morning. A few farmers sit and talk on hay bales by the side of the road, another man leads a cow with a rope tied around its neck down a dirt path. Jaskier almost trips over a group of small children who tumble out from a nearby cottage, weaving around him as they laugh and chase each other.</p><p>As he walks, he becomes consumed by his thoughts. There is a strange certainty which has nestled in his mind which suggests to him that if he finds Geralt, he will be able to write music again. There was an innkeep once who said Jaskier was lucky to have found his muse in Geralt, which subsequently left Jaskier choking out a rejection of the concept as Geralt’s silently threatening aura increased. Though perhaps there was something true about the statement Jaskier thinks in retrospect. There is an association between his best music and Geralt, and Jaskier knows that he had never felt quite so inspired as he did during his time with the other man.</p><p>Most people tend to find muses in pretty ladies and blossoming romances. Jaskier apparently, has found his in a grumpy witcher who reeks of horse and stale blood.</p><p>It takes him all of twenty steps and a series of tumbling thoughts, for Jaskier to convince himself that finding Geralt is his new prerogative. He ducks into the inn on his way, quickly gathering his things into a small pack, strapping his lute to his back, and sliding a handful of coins to the bewildered inn keep. He winks at her before he turns to go.</p><p>“Don’t worry love, I’ll be back to bless everyone’s ears again soon enough.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes and whacks him with a cleaning cloth, as he slips out the door.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier begins his journey down the road. He walks quickly with a look of resolve etched on his unusually serious face. The boots he wears are not made for walking long distances and a recent spattering of rain has muddied the dirt so that it sticks to the bottom of his shoes. A herd of cows gather by a fence post, huddled together in the sun. One of them lows softly as he walks by.</p><p>He squints looking into the distance, searching for a familiar figure. There seems to be no one ahead. He frowns, shifts the lute on his back and continues to walk, determination fuelling him forward. There are not many tracks leading through the muddy road, the rain washing away all but the most recent. He does notice a series of deep hoof imprints however, that travel beside what appears to be large boots pressed into the mud – the witcher and his horse. He ignores the small voice in his head that suggests Geralt will be riding Roach by now and as a horse travels far faster than a man, he is unlikely to catch up to them. Indignation overrules objectivity, and he continues.</p><p>The hoof tracks lead Jaskier onwards until they reach the edge of the forest. The road continues over a small slope and then down towards a set of farms that sit nestled into a valley on the horizon. It must be the next village Symko was travelling towards. Strangely however the road moving in the direction of the village is clear of tracks. The mud has dried in the early morning sun, but it is smooth, untouched since the rain erased the memories of former travellers.</p><p>Jaskier sighs, feeling the heat of the sun beat down against the nape of his neck. He shifts the lute on his back with sweaty fingers as he lets his gaze drift around the area, seeking the path the horse has travelled.</p><p>It does not take him long to find it. A series of hoofprints leads off the path and into the trees, following a more obscure route. The only indication of a used path in this direction is that the grass is less wild in parts, flattened beneath repetitive footfalls, trampled to dust and mud. The tracks continue that way, pressed into the twigs and leaves.</p><p>Jaskier sets his jaw and follows. The trees are tall here, forming a leafy roof over his head that hides him from the sun and drowns him in shadow. Only small specks of light squeeze through, dappled and weak, struggling vainly to reach the ground. There is a rustle in a bush nearby, some hidden creature shuffling past. Fear spikes in Jaskier’s chest as regret begins to clamber its way into his mind, settling into the quickened pace of his heartbeat.</p><p>He follows the hoof prints for a short while to the edge of a pool of water, upon which they disappear. He tiptoes around the edge of the pool, grimacing as his shoes slip in the mud. There are no hoof prints to be seen. As he looks forward, he realises he has come to the edge of a swamp. Pools of stale water settle before him, surrounded by dark mud and the skeleton husks of trees. A low fog clings to the murky surface of the swamp, creeping towards him. Jaskier pauses, uncertainty paralysing him. The lute feels heavy against his back and the sick stench of the rancid water churns his stomach.</p><p>There is a ripple in one of the pools nearby as a creature moves below the surface. Jaskier spins around, blinking rapidly. His heart pounds, caught somewhere in his throat. The water moves again, and something draws itself up and out of the shallow depths with a terrifying screech.</p><p>Jaskier, to his credit, recognises it immediately as a drowner. He supposes he has been around Geralt enough to have some information stick in his memory. This thought is fleeting as the monster cranes its neck and bares sharp fangs.</p><p>Jaskier stumbles backwards.</p><p>“Huh, okay. Well, fuck this then,” he mutters, turning to leave back the way he had come. As he goes to do so, he feels something solid against his back and, with rising dread, turns to see another drowner behind him.</p><p>Jaskier inhales sharply, terror gripping cold fingers around his heart. He pushes it away and tries to run, but it makes a grab at his wrist and he falls forward, feet slipping in the mud. His lute slides off his back as he scrabbles for purchase against the soft ground. Something sharp cuts into his side and he screams, the pain shooting through him instantly. He can hear them surrounding him, teeth gnashing, ragged breathing, and he turns on his back, arms above his face in a desperate attempt to defend himself in any way that he can.</p><p>More come, dragging themselves upright, water sluicing off blackened, dead skin. They move to surround Jaskier, claws slashing forward, swiping at him. One of them leaps forward, teeth sinking into his leg. Jaskier shouts and struggles to kick it away, but he is weak with pain and fear. It lets go after he manages to elbow it in the head and it stumbles backwards, dazed. More take its place, grabbing at him with claws and teeth, their eyes vicious and hungry.</p><p>Jaskier curls up on the ground, drawing his legs and arms as close to his body as possible. The grass scratches against his cheek, fingers trembling and slippery with blood. Pain sparks his vision white and a scream tears from his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to retaliate, wishing for it to be over. How tragic, he thinks, to die alone in the middle of some rancid swamp.</p><p>He wonders dimly if a future bard might write a song about his death, and subsequently passes out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Someone is calling his name.</p><p>He squints an eye open, head heavy, a dull pain throbbing in his chest. The pain deepens and intensifies as his awareness grows and he grimaces, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. There is something wrong with his leg. The pain settles there, flaring, agonising. Someone is shaking him, a rough hand touching against his cheek.</p><p>“Fuck,” a deep voice says and Jaskier shakes himself free of the fog that clouds his mind to see Geralt standing over him, sword raised, sporting a terrifying expression that could easily cause a grown man to shit himself. Jaskier thinks for a moment that he must be hallucinating, so he smiles, a hopeless, pathetic smile full of blood. Geralt grimaces and reaches down, a rough hand shaking him violently. </p><p>“Wake up.”</p><p>Jaskier blinks; this is no dream. He struggles to right himself as Geralt sweeps his sword through the air, slicing the arm off a drowner. It staggers away with a shriek.</p><p>“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt snarls as he slices through another and it falls apart in a horrific mess of blood and guts.</p><p>Jaskier tries to snort derisively, but the movement is painful, so he instead settles for narrowing his eyes.</p><p>“What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are <em>you</em> doing?”</p><p>“Saving your ungrateful arse,” Geralt replies. A clean cut decapitates the drowner before it is kicked to the ground.</p><p>“Well maybe if you hadn’t been so hard to find, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”</p><p>Geralt ducks as a drowner runs at him, then kicks its legs out from underneath it and stabs it in the head. He turns a pointed glare towards Jaskier before slamming the hilt of his sword into a drowner that approaches from behind, winding the monster before embedding his sword into its shoulder.</p><p>“You were looking for me?”</p><p>“No Geralt, I enjoy spending quality time in bloody swamps.”</p><p>“Why were you looking for me?”</p><p>“I’m still mad at you, you were a shit friend!”</p><p>It slips out of his mouth before he even has time to think about it and as he says the words, the realisation of their truth dawns on him. He wanted to find Geralt not just to hear about the monster contract, or to see an old friend; what he really needed from this was to sort out what they had previously left unresolved. The anger of their fight rekindles in his chest.</p><p>Geralt, still engaged with the drowner, narrowly avoids a slash of its claws as he shakes his head incredulously. His eyes flit towards Jaskier but he does not turn his head, still focussed on the battle before him.</p><p>“Now is not the time, Jaskier.”</p><p>He ducks low and then stabs the drowner in the chest. Geralt does not move away fast enough as the drowner rakes its claws through the air and catches Geralt on the arm. Geralt grimaces and staggers a little, but steadies himself with a few breaths.</p><p>“You hurt me,” Jaskier shouts.</p><p>Geralt sets his jaw as two more drowners crawl from the stinking water, sensing blood.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>He readies his blade.</p><p>“I shouldn’t have said-”</p><p>
  <em>swing </em>
</p><p>“-that it would be a blessing-”</p><p>
  <em>stab </em>
</p><p>“-for you to be taken off my hands.”</p><p>The drowners are hurt but are relentless in their attacks. Geralt steps quickly aside as they lunge at him.</p><p>“Though right now,” he breathes through gritted teeth, “I am beginning to remember why I said that.”</p><p>Jaskier has regained enough of his strength to manage an eyeroll, but immediately feels dizzy following it. Geralt destroys both drowners so that there is just one remaining. His fingers tighten against the hilt of his sword, steadying himself.</p><p>“Shut up,” Jaskier says, but it lacks any bite. The anger has dissipated somewhat, and he is left feeling drained and shaky. His leg is burning, the pain overwhelming. He struggles to remain present, darkness threatening to pull him under.</p><p>Geralt, in one swift movement, sends the final drowner flying back through the air in an unfortunate number of pieces. The body falls to the mud, darkening the ground with the blood that seeps from its fatal wounds.</p><p>There is a pause, as there is after every fight – a kind of silent reflection, a gratitude of life, and an exhalation of tension. Geralt stands with his sword still drawn, breathing heavy. Mist curls around him, waves of humidity trapped in sun beams. His hair is askew, sweat pressing it to stick against his cheek.</p><p>Geralt sighs and wipes his sword clean before he sheathes it. His attention turns to Jaskier now, and Jaskier immediately regrets the entire excursion. He should have remained where he was, performing songs for local taverns and drowning his memories of a certain grumpy witcher with tankards of ale.</p><p>‘Hm,” Geralt grunts.</p><p>He walks towards Jaskier and, far more gently than expected, removes Jaskier’s hand from where it has been clenched around his leg as though sheer willpower might heal him. He bends down to examine it closely, balancing on the balls of his feet. Cold fingers touch against warm skin.</p><p>“Not too deep,” Geralt says, “But nasty enough.”</p><p>Jaskier follows his gaze and observes the wound. The blood is bright and fresh, the skin around the gouge raised and swollen.</p><p>“Can you move it?”</p><p>Jaskier attempts to bend his knee but a fresh surge of pain that courses through his muscles causes him to whimper pathetically instead. Beads of sweat form on his forehead.</p><p>‘Barely,” he manages to hiss through gritted teeth.</p><p>“Nothing seems broken,” Geralt says, fingers pressing carefully against Jaskier’s bones. “But we need to get you to somewhere safer. You need to heal.”</p><p>Jaskier shifts a little, and fresh pain spots in his vision. There is something else, something hurts near his waist as well. He tries to tell Geralt as much but the words he mumbles are barely coherent. He manages to gesture vaguely towards his hip, eyes squeezed shut.</p><p>Geralt must understand because the fingers touching his leg move to press near his waist for a moment, before retreating quickly. A sharp inhale, and Jaskier knows that it must not be good.</p><p> “You need to take your shirt off,” Geralt says.</p><p>Jaskier tries to laugh, but it comes out a painful wheeze.</p><p>“Geralt please, if you want me that badly all you have to do is ask,” he says, words slurred slightly.</p><p>Despite himself, he manages a smile. Geralt however, seems unimpressed.</p><p>“I need to look at it properly.”</p><p>His hands dance hesitant, expecting, and yet he waits for Jaskier to give him permission. With effort, Jaskier shifts out of his top layer and then, with Geralt’s help, slips the undershirt over his head. It is shredded down one side and practically unwearable now, unless he somehow requires a ‘victim of a drowner attack’ costume for a masquerade party.</p><p>Once the shirt is off, he feels quite exposed. The sun that struggles through the fog warms his bare skin with a gentle kiss. Geralt’s fingers run over the skin near his abdomen, seeking broken bones and hidden wounds. Satisfied, he draws his hand away. He rummages through his pack and pulls out a small container of ointment, which he then dabs lightly onto the injury. He does the same to the leg wound. It stings a little, and Jaskier winces, sucking in a sharp inhale.</p><p>Geralt, noticing this reaction, says “It stings,” a few moments too late in warning. Jaskier chokes out a laugh. He can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.</p><p>“Sure does.”</p><p>Geralt presses some cloth into his hand. Their fingers overlap for a moment before he pulls away.</p><p>“Hold it against your side for now. It will stop the bleeding a bit.”</p><p>Jaskier does as he says and watches as Geralt wraps another cloth around his leg, before looping a strap that looks like it must be some part of Roach’s saddle equipment around it to hold the cloth in place against his skin. Geralt drapes the torn shirt around Jaskier’s shoulders as though he is a young mistress being valiantly protected against impropriety by her favoured gentleman.</p><p>“We need to find somewhere safe to rest for a bit,” Geralt says.</p><p>Jaskier feels a twinge of embarrassment beneath the pain, the realisation that he has caused a delay in Geralt’s journey due his own idiotic misjudgement.</p><p>“We can travel, I’ll be fine,” Jaskier says. As though to taunt him with his own lie, Jaskier winces as an adjustment of his leg causes a new trigger of pain to shoot up his calf. He manages to bite back a curse, but it is not missed by Geralt who frowns.</p><p>“That kind of distance riding on a horse won’t do your injury any favours.”</p><p>Jaskier squints. He must have been half out of his mind attempting this journey. How could anyone think that wandering through the woods alone is a recipe for success.</p><p>Geralt whistles and Roach moves closer, tossing her head in concern. He reaches up and strokes her dark nose.</p><p>“I need you to ride for a bit though, just so we can find somewhere to stay.”</p><p>“Sure,” Jaskier says, as he gets to his feet, “Should be no problem.”</p><p>He feels dizzy for a moment and sways a little. Geralt snakes an arm around his waist to hold him steady.</p><p>“No more fainting,” he says sternly.</p><p>He helps Jaskier up into Roach’s saddle, slipping into the seat behind him. His arms encompass Jaskier to hold the reigns, chest pressed into Jaskier’s back. When he speaks a command to Roach, his breath ghosts over the nape of Jaskier’s neck, unsettling the fine hairs that lay there. Jaskier clings tight to Roach’s mane, closing his eyes against the dizziness that returns with a vengeance.</p><p>They travel for only a short while, Jaskier dozing in and out of consciousness, awakened each time by sharp taps to the shoulder and the frustrated growl of Geralt behind him. The ride is rough once they leave the area of the swamp, as Roach struggles to maintain her footing over the uneven ground. By the time they stop, Jaskier’s leg is in agony, his side feels like it is split in half, and he is feeling quite ill.</p><p>Geralt slips off the horse and helps Jaskier down, looping an arm around him to hold him steady.</p><p>“Can you sit for a moment?” he asks Jaskier, “I need to see if there is anything inside.”</p><p>Jaskier blinks at him, confused, but follows his gaze to see a dilapidated wooden hut nestled amongst the trees ahead.</p><p>He snorts weakly.</p><p>“Great. If the drowners hadn’t already almost killed me, I guess a spooky monster hidden in a haunted shack can finish me off.”</p><p>Geralt chooses to ignore him, something the witcher is quite apt at doing, and helps Jaskier settle on a patch of grass near Roach. The horse shuffles nervously which Jaskier thinks is probably never a good sign. He watches as Geralt kicks the door down and moves inside with his fingers resting on the hilt of his sword. There is a pause where Geralt disappears into the darkness. Jaskier, reminiscent of a child, tugs at a tuft of grass and yanks it from its roots. The witcher soon reappears with a grimly satisfied expression.</p><p>“It’s good, let’s go.”</p><p>Geralt comes over to Jaskier and helps him to his feet. Together, they shuffle into the abandoned building, leaving Roach outside to chew on the grass.</p><p>Inside the hut it is dark and musty. The sun struggles through the wooden planks that form the walls until Geralt elbows the loosely nailed wood across the window and it falls away, dust spiralling into the air now caught in bright light that pools inside. </p><p>There is the skeleton of a bed pressed into the corner of the hut, a sagging mattress within its confines, and a mouldy blanket bunched up on one end. Jaskier throws that to the floor and sits down on one end gingerly, avoiding a section that looks as though it has been thoroughly gnawed by some terrible animal with strong jaws. Geralt continues to scan the place, searching through a broken cabinet, some crates piled beneath the table, and running his fingers along a shelf that lines one wall. Most of the furniture seems to have been ransacked, or perhaps, taken alongside a hurried escape.</p><p>“No signs of a struggle,” Geralt mutters to himself. “There’s no blood or drag marks.”</p><p>Jaskier, feeling increasingly woozy, offers him a dazed smile.</p><p>“Wonderful.”</p><p>Geralt turns to look at him and pales slightly. Jaskier supposes he must look awful. Still, he can’t help but bristle a little at the look of horror thrown in his direction.</p><p>“I know I’m handsome, you don’t have to stare,” he says. It’s supposed to be teasing, but the words fumble from his lips, breathless and slurred. He clenches his fingers tighter around the wooden slats, feeling nausea spike again. Geralt is by his side instantly.</p><p>  “Lay down,” he instructs, “You need to rest.”</p><p>The next thing Jaskier knows is the feeling of a rough blanket draped around him and something soft rolled up and placed beneath his head. There are vague and unclear memories of Geralt’s deep voice wavering in and out of consciousness. Concerned words echo in his mind, a gentle touch, the flickering light of a candle.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He wakes once during the night in a semi-delirious state, blurred and unfocussed. He blinks in the darkness, eyes mere slits as he gazes across the room. A figure sits by a fire, illuminated by the flames. Tension is pressed into every aspect of his posture, golden eyes watching, unblinking. Jaskier smiles lazily and lets unconsciousness tug him down into its comforting depths once more. The memory fades to a dream.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he wakes again, it is daytime. He blinks his eyes open and groans, unable to comprehend the unfamiliar environment in the immediacy of his consciousness, a fog still lingering on the recesses of his mind. The blanket that he has dragged close to his chest smells distantly of horse and mud but there’s a sense of comfort pressed into the way it envelops him, despite the scent and the coarseness of its texture. With effort, he slides himself upright, glancing around the room.</p><p>Geralt is not there, but there is a pot of something cooking in the fireplace. It doesn’t smell like much, but the idea of warm food sends Jaskier’s stomach into spasms of desire.</p><p>He is still wearing his bloodstained underclothes, and he lifts his shirt up with a gentle tug to look at the wound on his side. It seems almost more horrific than even before, the daylight accentuating the large bruise that has now formed around it, swollen and purple. He then takes a turn to look at his leg and grimaces. The redness has spread across to his knee, settling into the joint and swelling further. The bandage that is wrapped around his leg is already soiled with blood. Jaskier touches it gently, unable to satisfy his curiosity through sight alone, and immediately draws back his hand, wincing in pain.</p><p>The door to the hut opens and Geralt enters carrying an armful of firewood. When he notices that Jaskier is awake, the slightest of smiles turns the corner of his lips upwards in a fleeting motion, and he nods in acknowledgement.</p><p>“You’re awake,” he says, tipping the firewood into a bundle by the corner. It clatters to the ground, unsettling a cloud of dust.  </p><p>“And feeling like shit,” Jaskier yawns. A headache congregates somewhere between his eyes and he rubs at his temples.</p><p>“You’ve been out for a whole day. Are you hungry?”</p><p>Jaskier nods as his stomach rumbles in agreement.</p><p>“Here,” Geralt says, offering an arm. Jaskier takes it gratefully and stands with the help. His leg threatens to buckle on him when he attempts to rest weight on it, so he hops carefully over to the table. Although it’s only a few steps, when he reaches the chair, he sits down with a solid thump and a grateful sigh.</p><p>Geralt busies himself with the food. Now in daylight, and with no life-threatening activities to captivate his attention, Jaskier takes some time to observe Geralt. He doesn’t seem too different from when they last parted. He has cut his hair shorter on the sides and has pulled the rest into a ponytail that sits high on the base of his skull. He has a few new scars, one particularly nasty one mars his collarbone, peeking out from beneath his loose-fitting shirt. A hint of exhaustion settles in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the deep lines of his face. Still ridiculously handsome though, Jaskier thinks, and silently curses him for it.</p><p>Geralt’s managed to discover some old cooking utensils and a few wooden bowls, and he heaps a serving of what looks like some sort of broth into them. The steam rises from the bowls and spirals in the cool air.</p><p>“I haven’t been properly hunting yet,” Geralt says as he places one bowl before Jaskier. “It’s just some wild roots and herbs, but it should fill you up a bit.”</p><p>Jaskier takes a mouthful of the liquid and swallows. It warms him instantly and he can’t help but smile gratefully. The taste is weak but there is a touch of salt to it that provides a slight flavour, combined with some roughly cut root to give it texture. It is far from the hearty tavern dishes he is used to, but it is certainly much appreciated.</p><p>Geralt also eats, but much more slowly, as though he is savouring each swallow of the strange, tasteless meal. His eyes watch Jaskier intently. Jaskier drops his gaze to his bowl, slightly unnerved.</p><p>They eat in silence for a few moments before Jaskier suddenly glances up, eyes wide and spoon clattering to the table.</p><p>“My lute!” he exclaims. He goes to get up, briefly forgetting that it’s not a good idea, and immediately falls backwards. Geralt is up quicker than a flash of lightning, stabilising him from behind with two hands pressed into his shoulders.</p><p>“It’s here,” Geralt says looking down at Jaskier. “I pulled it out of the swamp.”</p><p>Jaskier feels his heart flip and looks up, craning his neck at an awkward angle to see Geralt.</p><p>“You saved it?”</p><p>“Couldn’t save your life just to have you kill me when you realised your lute was gone.”</p><p>Jaskier snorts. “I would never.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>Geralt is still holding him, his grip firm but gentle. From this angle, the stubble peppered across his jawline is more noticeable and Jaskier can see another scar beside his mouth. Jaskier reaches up to touch at one of the hands holding him upright.</p><p>“You can let me go now,” he says softly. Their fingers brush, a whisper of a moment, before Geralt lets Jaskier lower himself back into the chair.</p><p> He settles in and picks up his spoon, continuing to eat.</p><p>“So, where is it then?”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t reply but walks over to where the packs sit against the floor. He moves a few things and pulls out the lute, holding it forward for Jaskier to see. The lute seems relatively unharmed and-</p><p>“Did you clean it?” Jaskier asks, eyebrows rising with bewilderment.</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>Jaskier feels something warm curl in his stomach, something fond and tender. It’s such a small act of kindness and yet, somehow speaks volumes of its significance. The thought of Geralt knowing how much the instrument means to him, and to not only protect it, but to clean and preserve it with the intention of making sure Jaskier is pleased. The thought of just that, beyond all else, the thought of Geralt wanting to please Jaskier, is enough to make Jaskier hide a smile behind his raised spoon.</p><p>“Thanks,” Jaskier says.</p><p>The witcher nods and settles down in the chair opposite him once more. He watches Jaskier closely still.</p><p>“Why did you do it?” Geralt asks. His voice is low and there is an underlying tremor of anger to his words, a subtle fear that hides beneath the harshness of his gaze.</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“You went into the woods looking for me by yourself. Don’t you have any concept of self-preservation?”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs.</p><p>“Guess not.” He attempts a weak smile but when Geralt does not return it, he sighs.</p><p>“I needed to find you,” Jaskier says, “And yes, I know running into the woods with zero monster fighting skills was an absolutely terrible idea but obviously I wasn’t thinking straight.” He pauses. “I didn’t know when I’d hear from you next, so I wanted to be sure that I had a chance to talk to you. Especially as we left things so poorly.”</p><p>He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, twisting the fraying edges between his fingers, distracting himself from the feeling of vulnerability.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and after the pause extends, Jaskier looks up. Geralt is frowning as though contemplating his next words. He is no longer watching Jaskier and is instead looking down at his own hands clasped in his lap.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says finally, though he doesn’t meet Jaskier’s gaze.</p><p>Jaskier clutches a hand to his chest with comically wide eyes, “Did I really just hear you apologise?”</p><p>“Don’t push it Jaskier.”</p><p>Jaskier raises both hands up, relinquishing his snarky reply. Geralt looks at him.</p><p>“I meant what I said yesterday, I should never have said that I didn’t want you around. That was a mistake.”</p><p>“There was some truth to it though,” Jaskier replies softly, a lingering pain squeezing the words in his throat as he voices them. He squints at Geralt. “You really hurt me.”</p><p>Geralt shakes his head. There’s something that shifts in his eyes, captured simultaneously in the twitch of his lips. Jaskier, incredulously, recognises it as regret, a hint of vulnerability exposing itself.</p><p>“It wasn’t true,” Geralt says. “You can be frustrating, and clearly you have no sense of danger, and you get into trouble far too often-”</p><p>“Is this your apology?”</p><p>“But I made a mistake,” Geralt says. His words hang in the air. Jaskier, mouth open with a retort rearing to go, shuts his mouth with a snap.</p><p>“I’m not good with words,” Geralt continues slowly. He wets his lips and exhales through his nose. Jaskier waits patiently, giving him his full attention. “And I was terrible with words that day. I’m sorry.” He looks at Jaskier. His gaze is steady albeit slightly defensive, as though daring Jaskier to tease him for his apology.</p><p>Jaskier’s lips twist into a smile.</p><p>“You <em>are</em> terrible with words but that’s okay. I’m brilliant with them, so we even each other out.”</p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes with a snort.</p><p>“Can tell you haven’t changed.”</p><p>“Neither have you.”</p><p>They lapse into a small silence then-</p><p>“Thank you,” Jaskier says, “For the apology. And for putting up with me.” He grins and then his expression transforms into something more serious. “Just, you don’t need to push me away like that next time. All you need to do is talk to me. I know I talk a lot, but I can just as well listen if I need to.”</p><p>Geralt nods.</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>Jaskier smiles and Geralt returns it, quiet and fleeting.</p><p>A bird calls outside and another responds. Geralt looks out of the window, arms crossed against his chest. The sunlight pours through, soft and warm as it brushes his skin. There is something mesmerising about the way it catches in his eyes, a heady swirl of amber and gold that soaks into his irises.</p><p>Jaskier observes his lute for a moment, caressing the fine wood. He drags his thumb over the bridge and gently plucks a chord, closing his eyes to capture the sound as it echoes in the quiet space between them. The instrument sits solid and hefty in his grasp and his hands fall so easily to hold it as though returning to their most natural position.</p><p> A chair scrapes. Jaskier opens his eyes. Geralt has stood up and he reaches to take both of their empty bowls, stacking them in one hand. He moves to clean them with a damp rag, circling the inside before wiping down the rim. Jaskier clears his throat.</p><p>“So actually, the thing is, I was also looking into this whole Symko thing before I knew you were here. I was kind of hoping the story might give me some inspiration for my next song, you know?”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t move his head, but the golden irises flit sideways to look at him.</p><p>“You were going to kill the monster?” he asks.</p><p>“Obviously not, I just wanted to hear the stories.”</p><p>Geralt stacks the bowls neatly on the bench and turns to look at him, arms crossed.</p><p>“So, are you telling me, the real reason you wanted to find me was so you could finish writing a new song?”</p><p>Jaskier blanches.</p><p>“Er, well no. What I said before was true. The song thing is a bonus though, so I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’d like to stick around and see how it turns out? You know for friendship purposes and for song writing purposes. The best of both.”</p><p>Geralt exhales a long-suffering sigh that Jaskier thinks is incredibly dramatic.</p><p>“No more making friends with monsters by yourself?” Geralt queries.</p><p>“Of course not.”</p><p>“No getting in my way?</p><p>“Obviously.”</p><p>“No singing?”</p><p>Jaskier throws him an incredulous look.</p><p>“How dare you!”</p><p>Geralt laughs, a deep rumble that sounds from low in his chest.</p><p>“Thought it was worth a shot.”</p><p>Jaskier strums a series of furious chords in defiant response. When he is done, he lets the lute slip from his lap and places it on a clean section of the table.</p><p>“When do we leave?” he asks.</p><p>“You need to heal.”</p><p>“I feel much better already,” Jaskier says. He swings his leg recklessly to prove this and immediately lets out a pained sound. Geralt watches him with obvious amusement.</p><p>“Sounds like it,” he says. He moves closer, looking at the bandaged wound. “It needs to be cleaned so it doesn’t become infected,” he says, gesturing to the leg. “I should have done it earlier.”</p><p>There is frustration nestled in the crease between his brows and Jaskier feels a ridiculous urge to smooth the skin with a press of his thumb. Instead, he gently touches a hand to Geralt’s shoulder.</p><p>“Don’t worry so much,” he says.</p><p>Geralt looks at the hand and back to Jaskier, though his expression doesn’t change, there is a sort of fondness that flickers in his eyes for just a moment before it is pulled away again, hidden beneath a stoic gaze.</p><p>He gets to his feet and drags a bucket of water beside one of the chairs, gesturing to it.</p><p>“Sit here.”</p><p>Jaskier does so, and Geralt moves a chair to sit opposite him. He rolls up his sleeves so that they bunch around his elbows, revealing thick, scarred arms.</p><p>“I’m going to rest your leg on my knee.”</p><p>He reaches down and carefully moves Jaskier’s leg until it is horizontal, ankle resting on Geralt’s thigh. There’s something strangely intimate about this, and Jaskier feels embarrassment flutter inside him as a flush slowly begins to crawl up the back of his neck.</p><p>“You know, I could probably do this myself,” Jaskier says. He sounds breathless, and he hates that. Geralt unwraps the soiled bandage on his leg to reveal the wound beneath. He then takes a cloth, dips it in the water, and gently presses it into the skin.</p><p>Jaskier closes his eyes and hisses a curse through clenched teeth.</p><p>“Fuck that hurts.”</p><p>Geralt continues, carefully cleaning the wound with water. His left hand holds Jaskier’s leg steady as he works, the intensity of his gaze focused on the task before him. When he leans forward, his shirt hangs low, his medallion swinging rhythmically across the barely concealed chest. Pale hair falls over golden eyes and Jaskier reaches forward, hands deftly tucking the strands of hair behind Geralt’s ears.</p><p>He only means for it to be helpful, to aid Geralt’s work. His fingers brush Geralt’s cheek a pause too long. Their eyes snap together. There’s something unreadable that shifts in Geralt’s eyes, something dark and unknown. Jaskier’s hand falls away.</p><p>“Your hair is too long,” Jaskier mutters. He finds he can’t meet Geralt’s gaze and looks away. Geralt hums in his throat, an acknowledgement perhaps, or annoyance for the interruption. He bends forward again, continuing his work.</p><p>After his wound has been efficiently cleaned, Geralt dabs some ointment onto it and winds a new, fresh bandage around it. As Geralt goes to move away, Jaskier reaches over and wraps his fingers around Geralt’s wrist.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says softly. A laugh. “Thank you <em>again</em>. I feel like I’m saying this a lot.”</p><p>Geralt nods, and there is a gentle lilt to his lips, a hint of satisfaction.</p><p>He pulls his arm out of Jaskier’s grasp and moves to hold the handle of the bucket, lifting it with ease to discard the dirty water outside. He disappears out of the door and Jaskier listens to the soft footfalls as he walks and the rush of water as it is poured to the ground. He hears Roach snort in displeasure and Geralt murmur some soothing words to her. Jaskier sits there on the chair, elbows on knees, hands clenched in his lap, and wonders what it all means.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As night falls, the chill creeps in through the poorly insulated walls and seems to bury deep into Jaskier’s bones. The remnants of rabbit stew settles cold in the bowls resting on the table, spoons askew. Geralt has kept the fire going and it burns dimly against the darkness, tossing stray embers into the night. Geralt sits close to it with his hands outstretched, the fire illuminating the rough palms as though they are glowing with magic. Jaskier cradles his lute between his arms, lazily strumming chords and humming a nonspecific tune.</p><p> “You know, drowners aren’t the most romantic creatures to sing about,” he says with a sigh, ending the chords with a soft smack of his hand, fingers splayed across strings.</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>He turns to look at Geralt.</p><p>“What’s the sexiest monster you’ve ever seen?”</p><p>Geralt crosses his arms over his chest. Despite the chill, he only has a thin undershirt on. It accentuates his muscles in an upsetting way.</p><p>“Monsters aren’t sexy Jaskier.”</p><p>“What about a succubus?” he replies with a grin and a knowing wink.</p><p>Geralt, to his credit, maintains his unamused composure.</p><p>“Fine, whatever.”</p><p>“Incubus?”</p><p>“The same.”</p><p>Jaskier groans and throws his hands up, unsettling the blanket across his lap so that it tumbles to the floor.</p><p>“You have to give me something! These songs don’t write themselves you know.”</p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes.</p><p>“What do you want me to say? You want a story about how I seduced an incubus?”</p><p>Jaskier chokes out a shocked laugh, eyebrows shooting upwards.</p><p>“Bollocks. Did you really?”</p><p>Geralt shrugs, but there is a playfulness to it, a coyness in the smirk that graces his lips. Jaskier leans forward, shaking his head in disbelief.</p><p>“You have to tell me!” Jaskier splutters, “You can’t just say things like that.”</p><p>“Unfortunately, you’ll just have to wait in endless anticipation,” Geralt replies, stubborn. He kicks his feet up, boots resting against the edge of the table. It’s unhygienic, but as they’re living in a dirty old shack, Jaskier really can’t bring himself to care too much.</p><p>“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met,” Jaskier says mildly, throwing an amused look his way.</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“Well if you won’t tell me the stories, I’ll just make them up.”</p><p>Jaskier leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. The lute swings upward and he strums a chord.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The story of the incubus</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Began at Beggar’s Dock</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When Geralt turned around he saw</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The incubus had a great big co-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Geralt kicks at Jaskier’s chair leg and the chair teeters dangerously for a moment before Jaskier rights himself with a wild swing of his arms. When the chair is steady again, Jaskier grins, pointedly ignoring the abrupt ending rudely forced onto his song.</p><p>Geralt seems to struggle against something for a moment, his expression betrayed by the wavering of his lips and the twitch of an eyebrow. He barks a laugh, the sound bright and loud in the small space. Jaskier, surprised by the sound, blinks, then offers a short nod of his head and a half bow from his seated position. Geralt shakes his head.</p><p>“That was…”</p><p>“Incredible? Life changing? Historically significant?”</p><p>“Terrible.”</p><p>Jaskier pokes his tongue out in a childish gesture and runs his fingers down the neck of his lute.</p><p>“I mean truthfully, the rhyme wasn’t ideal, but we can work on that.”</p><p>Geralt, the ghost of laughter still captured on his lips, stands to glance out of the window. There are stars just beyond the trees, twinkling amongst the blanket of leaves, teasing and distant.</p><p>“It’s late,” Geralt says, choosing to divert his attention to a new topic, “we should sleep.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs and places his lute back inside its case, resting it against the wall. He struggles to his feet, leg stiff and sore, as Geralt throws some water on the fire to extinguish it. The light in the hut dims instantly with the hiss of water meeting flame, succumbing to shadowed walls lit only faintly by the moon.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, moving to Jaskier’s side to help him towards the bed. It is only a short distance, so Jaskier waves his help away. Geralt ignores his protestations and stays by his side, letting Jaskier lean into him a little to lessen the weight on his sore leg.</p><p>With effort, he manages to reach the edge of the mattress, sitting down heavily as he does so. It sinks under his weight and the wooden slats groan. He carefully moves his leg horizontal and settles into the bed, drawing the blanket around him.  He does not close his eyes yet though, distracted by the movement of the witcher as he gets ready for sleep, silently roaming around the hut. After a few moments, Geralt settles on the floor amidst a pile of rags.</p><p>Jaskier frowns and moves himself upright, leaning on one elbow.</p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>“Trying to sleep.”</p><p>“Come here,” Jaskier tutts.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Jaskier rolls his eyes, though the effect is lost in the dark. He sees Geralt sit up a little to look at him. Although he can’t make out his facial expression, Geralt’s hair is striking in the pale light of the moon. It seems to glow; incandescent. </p><p>“Come here, it’s far too cold on the floor.”</p><p>He shuffles closer to the wall and motions for Geralt to come over with a short wave of his hand, holding the blanket around him.</p><p> “I’m fine.”</p><p>“You’re not.”</p><p>“I assure you Jaskier, it doesn’t bother me.”</p><p>Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, feeling a little self-conscious about the offer, but stubborn enough to refuse to let it go.</p><p>“Well it bothers me, so get in here.”</p><p>Geralt sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He stands, a hulking silhouette against the darkness.</p><p>“It’s not made for two people.”</p><p>“Bollocks,” Jaskier replies tiredly.</p><p>Geralt walks over and Jaskier moves again giving him as much space as possible. Geralt sits down and the bed dips lower with the wooden slats protesting louder than before. He sits there for a moment, uncharacteristically hesitant, before he swings both legs up and lays down.</p><p>The first thought Jaskier has is that he has made a big mistake because the bed clearly <em>isn’t</em> made for two people and Geralt is a large man. The second thought Jaskier has instantly deteriorates as he becomes increasingly aware of the way he can feel Geralt’s warmth beside him. Geralt is practically hanging off the side of the bed in a way that would certainly be uncomfortable yet despite this, Jaskier is still pressed against his shoulder, their hips just touching. Geralt turns on his side, facing away from Jaskier which gives them both slightly more space, and yet Jaskier remains impressively aware of how close they are. He can feel his own pulse beating rapidly beneath his skin, the echo drumming in his ears. He is sure that Geralt can hear it too. Jaskier breathes out slowly and when he breathes in, he can smell the scent of leather that clings to Geralt’s skin.</p><p>When he eventually falls asleep that night, he drifts off to the steady sound of Geralt breathing beside him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next day, Jaskier wakes to find the bed empty and the room filled with the warm glow of the morning sun. Geralt is nowhere to be seen, so Jaskier carefully eases himself out of bed and into one of the wooden chairs by the table. He checks his leg and is pleased to see the bandage is mostly clean which suggests it must be healing. He tugs up his shirt to look at the gouge on his side and that too seems to be doing relatively better. His wounds are still tender though and the healing skin tugs when he moves too suddenly, sore and painful.</p><p>Jaskier slouches in his chair, plucking the lute out of its case.</p><p>He has hummed his way through a few old folk songs when the door to the hut slams open and Geralt returns. He is holding a string of dead rabbits, crossbow slung over his shoulder. Jaskier startles as he enters, blinking widely.</p><p>“Fuck Geralt, you don’t have to make an entrance like that you know. I’m well aware of how big and strong you are.”</p><p>Geralt grunts and throws the rabbits onto the bench. Jaskier wrinkles his nose, looking away from the limp bodies. It’s not that he has a weak stomach, but it certainly doesn’t make him feel <em>good</em>.</p><p>“I got food,” Geralt says.</p><p>“I see that,” Jaskier replies, “be careful not to drip blood on the carpet, dear.”</p><p>Geralt ignores him and begins to skin the rabbits while Jaskier continues to idly strum his lute.</p><p>“How long do you think it will take until we can leave?” Jaskier asks between gentle chords.</p><p>“Are you so sick of my company already?”</p><p>“Never! But living in a derelict shack in the middle of the woods is not really my choice of fun.”</p><p>There is the smack of a knife against wood.</p><p>“We’ll wait a few more days. Maybe a week. Give you some time to heal.”</p><p>Jaskier fiddles with his lute, tuning one of the strings.</p><p>“Why didn’t you try to find a healer or a pellar or something?” he asks. He plucks the string and it twangs flat.</p><p>“Too far to ride.”</p><p>Jaskier frowns and turns one of the pegs, plucking the string again.</p><p>“I would have been fine. It was less than half a day’s walk back to the village, much less if riding.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t respond immediately but continues to slice the rabbit. The slick sound of the knife is accompanied by the reverberation of the lute strings, wavering around the correct pitch.</p><p>“I guess I wasn’t thinking,” Geralt mutters, slamming the knife into the bench again, “I was worried.”</p><p>The deft plucking stops, a chord halted abruptly by splayed fingers across strings. Jaskier grins.</p><p>“That’s nice of you.”</p><p>Geralt huffs and continues his work.</p><p>“So, what do you think about this whole Symko thing anyway? Any ideas?” Jaskier asks, changing the subject. He resumes his lazy strumming, satisfied with the pitch of his strings.</p><p>“Symko is dead,” Geralt says, “It’s a cockatrice. Noticed the tracks on the road near the farms. Had a chat to that kid who saw it too. Could barely make out his words through his terrified blubbering but definitely a cockatrice.”</p><p>“Sounds scary,” Jaskier says, absolutely noting the possibility of a euphemism, and mentally flicking through as many as could possibly fit into a song.</p><p>“We just need to find its lair. Probably in one of the caves under the mountain.”</p><p>He places the rabbit meat into a pan and settles it near the fire, stoking the flames. The meat begins to sizzle and Jaskier’s stomach rumbles as the smell wafts over.</p><p>“Easy enough,” Jaskier says. He shifts in his chair and his leg twinges at the movement. The lute is carefully placed on the table as he leans down and gently touches his calf, kneading his fingers around the sore section of skin. Geralt looks over.</p><p>“Okay?” he asks. The meat sputters and browns in the pan.</p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Jaskier replies.</p><p> </p><p>Once the meat is cooked, Geralt takes it from the fire and places it into the bowls, passing one to Jaskier as he huddles over the other and begins to eat.</p><p>“Tastes good,” Jaskier says. Geralt grunts in response.</p><p>“Maybe you should have become a chef instead of a witcher,” Jaskier says, humouring himself a little. Geralt looks up and frowns, swallowing his mouthful of food.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I’m just saying, you’re a man of many talents.”</p><p>Geralt snorts and continues eating.</p><p>“Have you ever considered doing anything else,” Jaskier continues. He pushes a piece of meat around his bowl, turning it over.</p><p>“Didn’t really have much choice.”</p><p>There is no resentment or anger in his voice, just resignation. For some reason, this pains Jaskier more than the alternatives.</p><p>“You always have a choice.”</p><p>“It’s good work. I get paid, I get to travel-”</p><p>“Get to constantly flee death-”</p><p>“-and it’s always different. Can’t complain.”</p><p>Jaskier looks at him.</p><p>“Sure, but does it make you happy?” he asks.</p><p>Geralt stops eating for a moment and meets his gaze. The frown that settles between his brows deepens and he sits back in his chair, elbows resting against the table.</p><p>“You’ve asked me about that before. Why does it matter to you?”</p><p>Jaskier, suddenly feeling exposed, swallows. He isn’t even sure why it presses on his thoughts. What does Geralt’s happiness mean to Jaskier anyway?</p><p>“I’m not sure,” Jaskier replies slowly, “Curiosity?”</p><p>Geralt looks unconvinced.</p><p>“I don’t need you to worry about my happiness Jaskier,” he replies shortly.</p><p>Jaskier nods and gives him a thin-lipped smile.</p><p>“Duly noted.”</p><p>They continue eating in silence for a few moments until Geralt finishes his meal. The witcher crosses his arms across his chest and looks at Jaskier.</p><p>“Besides, what do you think I could do?”</p><p>Jaskier, noting the invitation, grins.</p><p>“I don’t know. You could become a wrestling champion, or a blacksmith or race horses. I could teach you to sing and we could do duets. You could take your money and set up a nice house somewhere, marry a sweet lady and adopt some orphans. There are so many possibilities.”</p><p>“And none at all appealing.”</p><p>“Not even the duet one?”</p><p>“Especially not that one.”</p><p>Jaskier pushes his empty bowl to the side. He shrugs and then clasps his hands in front of him, resting his arms on the table.</p><p>“Your loss,” he says.</p><p>What about you?” Geralt says, after a moment.</p><p>“What about me?”</p><p>“Are you happy?”</p><p>Jaskier sucks an inhale through clenched teeth, tapping his chest dramatically.</p><p>“Asking the hard questions!”</p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes. “Well you asked first.”</p><p>“I’m just so used to dead silence directed towards me that I never expect you to ask me questions back.”</p><p>“Stop deflecting.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs. He slumps a little and moves his hand to rest under his chin, fingers tucked in neatly.</p><p>“Mostly, I suppose. I couldn’t – <em>wouldn’t</em> – dream of being anything other than a bard. I love singing and music more than most things. I just, I don’t know, I guess sometimes I feel like there’s still something missing.”</p><p>Geralt nods slowly, processing the response.</p><p>“A duet partner,” Geralt says with a completely straight face. Jaskier shoots him a look and after a pause, Geralt cracks a smile and barks an amused laugh.</p><p>Jaskier snorts. “Fuck off,” he says.</p><p>Geralt just manages to duck out of the way as a spoon flies at his head.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The day continues with little action. Geralt disappears for a few hours looking for some roots and herbs. Two birds make the windowsill their home and stretch their wings to bask in the sun. Jaskier sings to them, but they mostly ignore him. The sunlight stretches from a golden warmth to a dusky pink, the shadows lengthening. Geralt returns with a sack full of his finds and a new bundle of firewood. Roach pops her head through the door before Geralt shoos her out with a gentle thwack against her velvety nose.</p><p>The chill of the night settles in early and Jaskier climbs into the bed, cocooning himself in the blankets. With less fuss than the previous night, Geralt follows suit.</p><p>They lay side by side, Jaskier embracing the warmth he feels emanating from the arm pressed against his own. He looks up at the roof. He can only just make out the dips and curves of the wooden slats above, sticks of straw poking through the shadow. Geralt breathes slowly beside him, and although his breath his steady, Jaskier knows the other man is still awake due to the occasional gentle shifts and sighs.</p><p>“What are you going to do after we find the cockatrice?” Jaskier asks. His voice is louder than he expected in the quiet. Geralt exhales, frustrated.</p><p>“I’m trying to sleep Jaskier.”</p><p>Jaskier turns on his side to face Geralt. The witcher is on his back, though Jaskier can see his eyes flit across, glowing with the pale light of the moon.</p><p>“Are you going to look for that child?”</p><p>The man beside him tenses, eyebrows furrowed. His hands are clasped, stiff and silent on his chest.</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies.</p><p>“I think you should.”</p><p>Geralt makes a frustrated sound that curls low in his chest and flips onto his side to look at Jaskier. One arm bends upwards, a hand pressed beneath his cheek to cradle his head.</p><p>“I think you’re talking about shit you don’t understand,” he says. There’s a dangerous edge to his words, a warning shrouded within. Jaskier has never really been good at heeding warnings.</p><p>“You’re probably right, I tend to do that.” He exhales through his nose. “I don’t think this is something you can keep running from.”</p><p>“Since when did you become the expert?”</p><p>“I just think you’re going to have to face it sooner or later.”</p><p>Geralt stares at him, unblinking. They are close, so close that Jaskier can see the lines on his face, despite the shadows of the night. There is anger there, pressed into the thin line of his mouth and the hardness of his eyes, but there is also something else, something deeper. A denial perhaps, a reticent fear.</p><p>Jaskier reaches forward, offering the gentlest of touches. A reassuring press of fingertips to Geralt’s elbow. Geralt does not protest it.</p><p>“You’ve faced worse before,” he says, a whisper.</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>Geralt’s eyes close for a moment and then there’s a flurry of movement as he turns to lay on his back again. Jaskier’s hand falls from his elbow to rest in the wrinkled sheet. There is a heaviness that settles on his heart as he falls asleep, the future an ominous shadow before him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They continue like this for a while. Days pass, though Jaskier doesn’t really track the time. A storm hits them one evening, the lightning violent as it flashes through the sky, illuminating the horrors of the night in spooky silhouettes. Thunder rumbles and shakes the hut and the rain patters against the roof, raindrops chasing each other down the thatch. They lock up tight as well as they can, though the rain still manages to sneak through gaps in the roof, dripping into a well-placed pan moved near the bed.</p><p>After this extended period of rest, Jaskier begins to feel increasingly better. His wound is still healing, the skin that covers it is fresh and pale, but recovery is on its way. He can balance his weight on it now, no more hobbling around the hut. He is even able to venture outside to stand in the sun, smell the freshness of the morning air, and feel the breeze whisper against his face.  He sometimes drags a chair outside now and sits, lute in hand, watching as Geralt ambles about doing menial tasks.</p><p>They’ve fallen into a strange sort of comfort, a world of their own hidden from prying eyes. Sometimes Jaskier almost forgets that they still have an agenda. It’s so easy to ignore. In the woods it is peaceful and quiet, just the trill of bird song and the chirp of the insects. To live here forever, tucked away from society would not be impossible. He once suggested to Geralt that they should go away together to the coast, and he feels like perhaps this is the universe giving him that peace, if just for a moment. He sinks into this feeling of comfort, of a simple life alongside Geralt, and pushes all pending tasks from his mind.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Early one morning he stretches his leg out, feeling the familiar twinge near his calf, but noting that the pain is now merely a dull ache.</p><p>Geralt, as if on cue, speaks up.</p><p>“How is it feeling?”</p><p>“Better,” Jaskier says, tilting his head sideways to look at him. Geralt stands by the table, cleaning and sharpening his swords. The crackle and pop of the fire is interrupted occasionally by the slick sound of scraping steel and rhythmic hammering. Geralt has his sleeves rolled up and Jaskier’s gaze follows the scars that rope their way around his arms, a pattern of pain and recovery. He supposes he might soon have his own scars too from his wounds.</p><p>“Good,” Geralt replies. He holds his sword up to the light and the fire dances against the sheen of the steel, winking on the edge of the blade as he turns it slowly.</p><p>“I think we can leave soon,” Jaskier says. “Tomorrow should be fine.”</p><p>Geralt puts down his blade and comes over to where Jaskier is sitting.</p><p>“Let me have a look,” he says, squatting on the floor. He takes Jaskier’s ankle and lets it rest on his knee.</p><p>Geralt gently unravels the bandage and they both turn to inspect the wound. The blood has clotted, forming a large scabbed area. The bruise around it has paled, but the mottled green and purple still paints his skin. Geralt presses a few fingers gently against the leg.</p><p>“Does it hurt?” he asks.</p><p>“A little. But it’s bearable.”</p><p>Geralt nods. He drags his fingers down to Jaskier’s ankle to remove the leg from his knee. Jaskier shivers at the touch, a flutter of fingers over sensitive skin. He sees Geralt look at him, a flash of eyes drawn upwards and then drawn away just as quickly. He thinks Geralt does not mean for him to notice.</p><p>“It will take a while to fully heal,” Geralt says, “But you should be fine to walk and ride now with no issue. Just try to stay out of danger. I know that’s apparently a hard task for you.”</p><p>“I’ll do my best.”</p><p>“I don’t want to have to come rescue you again.”</p><p>“Not to state the obvious here Geralt, but we both know that won’t be the last time you rescue me.”</p><p>Geralt huffs and lets Jaskier’s leg slip from his knee. He gives the ankle a quick pat before standing up.</p><p>“Show me the other one,” he says, gesturing to Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier rolls his eyes and tugs his undershirt up.</p><p>“Looks fine,” Geralt murmurs, again, reaching out to gently press his fingers against Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier inhales and shuts his eyes. A sudden strange desire possesses his mind for a moment, a desire to have Geralt press both hands against his chest, to hold him and caress his skin. It is not the first time he has had these thoughts.</p><p>“What is it?” Geralt asks, concern evident in the cadence of his words, “Does that hurt?”</p><p>“No,” Jaskier replies, “Just ah, sensitive is all.”</p><p>He swallows and scoots back a little, distancing himself from the touch. His shirt falls back over his chest, and Geralt steps away.</p><p>“It’s all healing well.”</p><p>Jaskier grins. “Maybe your true calling was a healer?”</p><p>“Don’t start that again.”</p><p>A short laugh. “Just an observation!”</p><p>Geralt turns back to his sword on the table. He inspects it once more before he sheathes it.</p><p>“I had to learn. Travelling by myself, I can’t always rely on a healer to be around.”</p><p>“Must be hard to be alone all the time,” Jaskier muses, “I can’t imagine what I’d do.”</p><p>“Die, probably.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“It’s not like I get much of an opportunity to be alone, not with you following me around like some kind of lonely pup.”</p><p>Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, mouth falling wide in shock and indignation</p><p>“How dare you! I provide quality entertainment and companionship.”</p><p>“Debatable.”</p><p>Though vaguely reminiscent of their prior argument about companionship, Jaskier is unbothered. He sees the humour in Geralt’s smile, the way his eyes dance in the light. There is no ill intention there.</p><p>“You wouldn’t know what to do without me,” Jaskier says, a smug smile on his face.</p><p>Geralt pauses and looks at him, hands clenching into fists against the edge of the table.</p><p>“It was a bit boring,” Geralt admits. There’s an honesty there that sets Jaskier off balance for a moment, scrambling for purchase in the conversation.</p><p>“Uh I, well, same I suppose.”</p><p>Geralt tips his head. He smirks, the tips of his canines peeking through his lips.</p><p>“Nobody around to force your music on?”</p><p>Jaskier flicks a wrist; dismissive.</p><p>“Oh no, I still managed to do that. I have a certain charm about me,” he says. “Though none of the tavern crowds managed as consistent a scowl as you do.”</p><p>“Hm. Guess that’s my charm then.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The scowl. That’s part of my charm.”</p><p>Jaskier looks at him. There is a wry smile on Geralt’s face, an expression that Jaskier remembers being far rarer before. It seems to come easier to him lately, a gentle lilt of lips over sharp teeth, a glimmer in his eyes, creased slightly by the corners.</p><p>“You have many charming features,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t mean to say it the way he does. It is meant to be in jest, a slight prod of humour. It is not. The words sound far too genuine and Geralt’s smile falters, a hesitant confusion. Jaskier swallows and he see Geralt track the movement. Their eyes meet.</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says.</p><p>Jaskier looks away.</p><p>“So many charming features,” Jaskier continues, “Like the constant stink of horse that hangs around you, and the way your clothes are always stained with some sort of monster blood.”</p><p>Geralt snorts and moves away. Jaskier finds he can’t meet his eyes, but he watches as his feet retreat to the other end of the hut.</p><p>“You flatter me,” Geralt replies, “But I would prefer if you keep my horse stink out of your next song.”</p><p>He laughs and a bird responds in the woods with a sharp, vibrant sound. Jaskier lets his eyes rest on the table. There is a spoon there, and he can see Geralt reflected in its surface, warped by the way it curves. The witcher leans against the window, elbows bent with one arm dangling outside. The clouds above them must part, for a sudden influx of light comes sprawling through the hut. The sunlight warms him, as does the sight of Geralt so calm, a peaceful pause in the chaos. It flushes across his skin and unfurls in the pit of his stomach. Jaskier smiles, closes his eyes, and basks in the warmth. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. apprehension</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
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<p>Jaskier wakes first the next morning. He immediately knows he is awake before Geralt because it is the first time he has been awake in the morning and there is still a weight pressed against him. He squints one eye open. It must be early, as there is only a hint of pale light filtering through the room, not having yet reached the golden warmth of sunrise. As he settles into consciousness, he realises that one of his hands has found purchase in Geralt’s shirt, right above his hip. He can feel the warmth of Geralt’s skin beneath his fingers, even through the press of fabric.</p>
<p>Geralt shifts and sighs. A cold foot touches against his knee and Jaskier startles. The thoughts from yesterday return with a vengeance. Geralt pressed against him, Geralt running a hand down his stomach, Geralt kissing him on his hips, his thighs, his –</p>
<p>Geralt makes a sound, a soft snuffle, and turns onto his back. Jaskier’s arm, which had been resting over his hip slides with the movement so that it is now resting on Geralt’s stomach, holding him in a cruel imitation of how a lover might. Jaskier goes to pull back, but not before a hand slaps on top of his own.</p>
<p>Yellow eyes blink at him.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Geralt asks.</p>
<p>“Nothing. I just woke up.”</p>
<p>Their hands are clasped together and Jaskier feels an insane bubble of laughter forming in the pit of his stomach.</p>
<p>“Why are you holding me Jaskier,” Geralt says. His voice growls, heady with sleep.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t, I just- it must have happened in my sleep.”</p>
<p>Geralt doesn’t respond, but he sits up, and Jaskier follows. Their hands slip away from each other. They are so close still, skin against skin an elbow pressed against an arm. Their eyes meet and Jaskier feels that heat unfurl in his stomach again. In the hesitant dawn light, Geralt’s eyes appear dark, black pupils swallowing the rim of amber surrounding them.</p>
<p>Roach neighs outside, impatient for food. The moment breaks. Geralt stands up from the bed, extending his arms over his head and craning his neck like a cat lazily stretching in the sun. His shirt rides up over his stomach, revealing a pale expanse of skin.</p>
<p>“We leave today,” he says, padding over to the fire. There are embers there, smouldering against the wood, and he pokes at them with the iron. As he sits down in one of the chairs, the sun creeps further through the window, accenting his nose and cheekbones. His face falls again into shadow as he bends forward, slipping his feet into large boots.</p>
<p>Jaskier watches the whole process with a sort of stunned appreciation.</p>
<p>“We can eat the last of the rabbit and then we’ll go,” Geralt says. He looks up and their eyes meet again.</p>
<p>“Is everything okay?”</p>
<p>Jaskier nods and swings his legs over the side of the bed, wondering when the narrative changed and why Geralt seems so cautiously concerned about him now.</p>
<p> “I’m fine, just waking up is all,” he replies, offering a smile.</p>
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<p>They get ready together in silence, interrupted by the trilling sounds of birds, and the occasional snort from Roach who waits just beyond the door. Geralt takes the rags off the bed and stuffs them into one of the packs alongside some cloth wrapped herbs and their water skins. Jaskier gets dressed, inspecting the faint bloodstains around the cuffs of his sleeve and pant leg. Geralt washed the clothes at one point, and Jaskier is vaguely impressed at his handiwork. He douses his face with a handful of cold water and collects his lute, strapping the instrument to his back.</p>
<p>By the time morning has well and truly broken, they have saddled Roach and set off on their journey. Geralt lets Jaskier sit behind him in the saddle, though whether that’s out of kindness or concern for his wounds Jaskier isn’t sure. It means Roach moves slower, weighed down by two passengers instead of her usual one. As they move together, his legs knock into Geralt’s and his chest bumps forward, pressing Geralt’s back. He is unsure where to place his hands, so he makes do with leaning back against the saddle.</p>
<p>They travel slowly through the forest as Geralt scouts for tracks and trails. There is no road to follow, so Roach climbs up small hills and slips on muddy ground as she moves through the narrow spaces between trees. Jaskier sits tight behind Geralt, avoiding errant twigs and branches that might whack him in the face. It would be a tragedy to survive a horde of drowners only to have a stray stick ruin his lovely complexion.</p>
<p>The sun that peeks through the trees is at its pinnacle when Geralt finally stumbles on the tracks he is looking for. He mutters a gentle word to Roach and pulls her reins back ever so slightly.</p>
<p>“There,” he says, pointing to a section of grass. If it hadn’t been pointed out, Jaskier would not have noticed a thing. Though now, upon closer inspection, he can see some weak imprints in the ground. He wonders how such a large monster could have such a small impact.</p>
<p>“They’re old,” Geralt says, answering his thoughts, “A few days at least. They must have been washed away by the rain a week ago.”</p>
<p>He lets Roach pause here, looping her reigns around the branch of a tree to give her rest. It’s probably unnecessary, she’s an incredibly loyal companion, but perhaps it eases Geralt’s mind to do it anyway. The ground is covered in a blanket of leaves and Jaskier stretches his legs, pressing his heels into the dirt. When he kicks his good leg up, an orange leaf sticks to his shoe. He peels it off and flicks it away.</p>
<p>There is an old, gnarled tree nearby and he settles against the solid trunk. It is rough against his back but it’s good to stand after so long trapped in a saddle. Geralt unhooks his crossbow and disappears deeper into the forest to look for food. Jaskier closes his eyes, just for a moment. There is a quiet that is disturbed only by the wind whistling through the trees and the soft crunch of the leaves beneath Geralt’s shoes as he hunts.</p>
<p>He must doze off, because the next thing Jaskier knows is a gentle kick to his ribs. He starts, blinking drowsily. Geralt stands over him and holds out some bark. Jaskier, still slightly dazed, takes it in his hand.</p>
<p>“Thanks?” he says, “I usually prefer flowers.”</p>
<p>Geralt sits down beside him, stretching his legs out.</p>
<p>“It’s food,” he says, and with no further explanation, takes a bite out of a similar piece he holds. He looks at Jaskier, chewing on the bark with a blank expression.</p>
<p>Jaskier looks at it and wrinkles his nose.</p>
<p>“It’s bark,” he says.</p>
<p>“Edible bark.”</p>
<p>“All bark is edible if you’re desperate.”</p>
<p>Geralt gives him a sideways look.</p>
<p>“I didn’t tear it from a random tree Jaskier. It’s a special kind. Good to give us enough energy until we make camp for the night.”</p>
<p>“Last time someone told me something was a ‘special’ kind of food, I started to hear colours and thought my shoes were trying to eat my feet.”</p>
<p>Geralt blinks at him. Jaskier sighs.</p>
<p>“Fine, I will give your <em>special bark</em> a try,” he says, defeated. He nibbles on one end and, when nothing shocking seems to happen, takes a larger bite and chews it thoughtfully. He tilts his head.</p>
<p>“Not as bad as expected,” he says, though Geralt seems to be lost in thought and offers only a small grunt in reply.</p>
<p>Jaskier notices that there is some fur sticking out of one of the packs, evidence of a successful hunt and promising a satisfying dinner. They sit together in stillness, Geralt watching the leaves dance in the wind, and Jaskier watching the twitch of Geralt’s fingers against his thigh. He seems restless, his thumb rhythmically beating an unknown tune against the fabric of his pants. There is mud pressed beneath his fingernails and dried blood settles in the wrinkles of his knuckles, rusted against skin.</p>
<p>Jaskier finds he doesn’t hate the silent companionship anymore. It had disconcerted him at first, forming an anxious desire to fill the space between them with words. But he has grown accustomed to it now. It is a comfortable sort of quiet that encompasses two people who are content enough to just be in a moment together.  </p>
<p>Geralt notices Jaskier watching him and turns to meet his gaze. There is a question there, curious and hesitant that sits heavy between them.  Jaskier wonders then, for a moment, if Geralt understands. If maybe Geralt also knows of this thing that unfolds between them.</p>
<p>After a few quiet moments, Geralt stands.</p>
<p>“Let’s go,” he says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They return to following the cockatrice tracks as they weave in and out of the forest. They vanish at one point, and Geralt relies instead on following a scent for a short while until the tracks return. Jaskier finds a feather alongside a bush, snagged in the thorns. He plucks it deftly and admires it. Slick and black, it spans a great length.</p>
<p>“That’s from our cockatrice,” Geralt murmurs, standing near him. He is close enough that his words warm the back of Jaskier’s neck. He flicks a thumb over the curved edge and the feather ripples at the touch. “Must have been old to fall out so easily.”</p>
<p>“Or hurt,” Jaskier says softly, noting a stain of blood near the quill tip.</p>
<p>He ties the feather to the strap of his lute case with a spare piece of twine he finds in their packs. It dances alongside him as they continue, floating on momentum.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They come to a stop near a small cavern gouged into the surface of a hill. Geralt slides off Roach and frowns at the ground.</p>
<p>“The tracks diverge,” he says after a pause. “There are cockatrice tracks leading in two directions.” His lips press into a thin line of concentration as he squats near the ground. He reaches a hand down and grabs a pinch of dirt.</p>
<p>“Blood,” he says, “But this is no cockatrice blood. A cow or sheep. Maybe the kill? But why is there two…” he rambles off for a moment, eyes widening before he shakes his head. “There’s three! Another set of cockatrice tracks.”</p>
<p>Jaskier drops to the ground beside him, wincing as the pain of sitting for many hours makes itself known in the cramp that twinges his leg and the dull ache in his hips.</p>
<p>“Maybe just the same stupid monster? Could have run around in circles for a bit.”</p>
<p>Geralt shoots him a look that Jaskier knows is the ‘<em>shut up or I’ll shove your own lute up your ass’</em> look. A classic Geralt expression. Jaskier raises his hands in defeat, focusing his attention instead on stretching out his legs and back. As he bends sideways, something in his back cracks in a satisfying way.</p>
<p>“Does it mean that there’s more of them? Or a diversion?”</p>
<p>A wolf howls in the distance, echoed by the rest of its pack. It’s getting late. The moon has been welcomed early and it sits high in the sky, preceding the darkness that follows.  Although the trees stand tall above them, the leaves are not dense enough to hide the blush of sunset, the sky a palette of red hues, a splash of pink touched by gold.</p>
<p>They make camp against the backdrop of stone that sweeps overhead into the small crooked cavern. The walls are smooth rock and the way it curves above them reminds Jaskier of an ocean wave at the peak of its life before it crashes down onto the sand and dissolves. He has padded down the area where he sits with spare clothes and one of the saddle blankets, the smell of sweat, and dirt, and horse, mostly overshadowed by the smell of the wood that burns in the fire.</p>
<p>Jaskier strums his lute, caressing the strings with a gentle sweep of his fingers. He hums, low in his throat, eyes shut as he considers his next melody. A slight frown furrows between his brows, a missed note, then a frustrated sigh spills from his lips.</p>
<p>His eyelids flutter open.</p>
<p>Geralt sits by the fire. The flames flicker and spit against the wood, their erratic dance reflected in golden irises that catch their movement. He is so still as he sits there, perhaps caught in one of his meditations. His hands are clasped before him, elbows resting on bent knees and his hair shifts, the breeze teasing playfully. </p>
<p>Jaskier watches the scene and plucks some words out of the air. Amber. Stillness. Crackle. Patience. They form themselves into sentences and sounds, a tune builds around them, becoming more precise and determined but then – it’s gone. He casts it out of his mind.</p>
<p>Jaskier sighs again.</p>
<p> “Will you stop that?”</p>
<p>The low voice catches him off guard.</p>
<p>“Stop what?” he asks.</p>
<p>“All that sighing. You sound like a lovesick maiden.”</p>
<p>Jaskier snorts and rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“Apologies, I didn’t know that breathing was against the rules.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums and sits up straighter. He lets his hands fall to his side, palms stretched across the rough wood of the stump he sits on. He rolls his shoulders a few times and stretches out his neck with a few turns of his head.</p>
<p>“If music makes you so unhappy,” Geralt says, “why do you do it?”</p>
<p>Jaskier widens his eyes and clutches a hand to his chest, sparing no drama.</p>
<p>“Why does a man fall in love with a woman time and time again after having his heart broken? Why does a mother clutch her crying babe to her chest despite not sleeping for days on end? Love and pain are two sides of the same coin.”</p>
<p>It is overly dramatic and drowning in satire, only meant in jest, yet Geralt looks at him with an intensity highlighted by the flash of flames in the dark. Perhaps he has hit a nerve. Geralt presses his lips together and hums again, the sound reverberating deep within his throat. His eyebrows lower, a crease forming between them.</p>
<p>“You’re delusional,” Geralt says, after a moment.</p>
<p>Jaskier winks.</p>
<p>“I’m a musician.”</p>
<p>Geralt does not look away immediately, and Jaskier busies himself by placing the lute back into the case, being careful not to scratch the wood or jolt the strings. The silence extends. Geralt has stilled again and would almost look as though he had returned to his meditation, if not for the way his eyes blink and his fingers drum into the wood beneath them. He is restless.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks.</p>
<p>The crease between his eyebrows deepen.</p>
<p>“Something feels strange,” he says. He exhales through his nose and his fingers stop tapping. “Not sure what…it’s just, not right.”</p>
<p>Jaskier moves closer to the fire, sitting near Geralt with his legs crossed at the ankles. Their arms touch and Geralt does not move away. A series of embers flick upwards, illuminating the night above for a moment before they fade.</p>
<p>“What kind of strange? On a scale of one to ten, how worried should I be?” Jaskier asks. His voice is nonchalant, but he shivers against the darkness.</p>
<p>“Not sure, it’s just a feeling.” He throws a small stick onto the fire and it flares, instantly turning it to ash.  </p>
<p>“Reassuring,” Jaskier mutters, drawing his arms closer to his chest.</p>
<p>The flames of the fire flare against the darkness until eventually, when left untended, they are consumed by the night so that all that is left is ash and embers and the gentle snores of two sleeping companions.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jaskier wakes at the first touch of dawn. There is a lingering chill in the air, the sun only just stretching its warm rays across the horizon. They clean up their camp as sunlight slowly seeps into the world, touching the tips of leaves and flushing across exposed skin. As the final pack is secured to the saddle, the sun is decidedly risen, and the forest is wide awake. </p>
<p>Geralt picks up the trail of the cockatrice where they left off. Despite the multiple tracks, he decides that the best course of action would be to follow the clearest set, and they do so. Roach trots along, hooves crushing the underbrush as she moves. They wind through the overgrown forest and come up across the base of a mountain, steep cliffs jutting up higher than Jaskier can see. Moss settles in crevices within the rock, and some plants cling to the edge, climbing up the expanse of stone in a web-like construction.</p>
<p>Geralt and Jakier travel along the edge of the mountain and soon, they manage to reach the end of the cockatrice trail. The cockatrice tracks lead into a cave up ahead, carved out from within the mountain they traverse. Its wide maw stretches open to reveal depths of unfathomable darkness, obscuring any creature who might choose to hide within the shadowy recesses. Jaskier shivers, though he is not cold. Unease prickles across his skin as he looks into the cave.</p>
<p>“The tracks continue inside,” Geralt says, slowing Roach. He slides off her back with a soft touch to her side and ties her reins to a nearby tree. He unsheathes his silver sword and balances it in his grip, testing the weight.</p>
<p>“Stay here and stay safe,” Geralt says.</p>
<p>Jaskier rests his hand against Roach’s mane.</p>
<p>“I’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>“I was talking to Roach,” Geralt replies, eyes flicking towards him. He grins, a hint of a sharp canines, and disappears into the darkness of the cave.</p>
<p>“He’s so rude to me,” Jaskier mutters, “You would never say anything like that to me would you Roach?”</p>
<p>Roach tosses her head and neighs gently. Jaskier nods, satisfied.</p>
<p>“I knew I could count on you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>While Geralt is gone, Jaskier makes himself comfortable on the forest floor, resting against a flat stone. The leaf bed is thick here, and he kicks his feet out into a pile of them, feeling a sense of achievement when his leg only slightly twinges at the movement. The leaves scatter and some are swept into the air by a light breeze. Roach stands solid and steady, a comforting presence. She tugs at some grass buried in the dirt and chews on it thoughtfully.</p>
<p>After only a short while, Geralt returns. When he emerges, Jaskier notes the way his eyebrows pinch together, and how he moves stiffly, frustrated. There is no evidence of a kill - no blood, no sweat, no dirt and grime. Jaskier notes that as a nice change at least.</p>
<p>“An easy one then?” Jaskier asks, getting to his feet.</p>
<p>Geralt’s fingers subconsciously brush across his sheathed sword.</p>
<p>“It was already dead,” he grumbles.</p>
<p>“That’s good right? Easy money.”</p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head. His lips twist in annoyance, but he makes no reply.</p>
<p>“Let me guess, you have a strange feeling?” Jaskier says.</p>
<p>The twist in his lips turns upwards slightly with grim humour.</p>
<p>“Whoever killed it was not a monster hunter. There were many weak cuts. It would have taken a while for her to die. Painful, tragic. They have also stripped her completely of usable parts, including the tongue. A strange choice.”</p>
<p>“Why is it strange? Maybe they plan to sell them?”</p>
<p>Geralt’s eyes are scanning the area, only vaguely listening. He drops to the ground, inspecting some muddy leaves.</p>
<p>“There are tracks here, but they’ve been brushed away. I didn’t notice at first.” He moves some of the leaves and presses his fingers to the dirt. “A group. Many men came through here.”</p>
<p>Jaskier touches him gently on the shoulder.</p>
<p>“This doesn’t concern us though right? You’re a monster hunter and the monster is dead, so that’s it. We’re done here.”</p>
<p>“No, there’s something else,” Geralt says suddenly, “the multiple cockatrice tracks. This is not the only one. And these men, they have only been here recently. Maybe they also know about the others.”</p>
<p>Jaskier raises his hands up, exasperated.</p>
<p>“Only you wouldn’t be satisfied with one dead cockatrice!”</p>
<p>Geralt stands up and begins to explore their surroundings.</p>
<p>“Too many leaves and deliberately covered tracks. Can’t follow them. They might have dropped something…” he trails off. Jaskier, who is used to this whole procedure, only vaguely listens to Geralt as he rambles to himself.</p>
<p>While Geralt walks around sniffing trees or whatever, Jaskier decides to wander into the cave. He is immediately overwhelmed by the humidity, a dampness that clings to him, settling on his skin. It seems neither cool nor hot, just <em>heavy</em>. And then there’s the smell – it makes his eyes water.</p>
<p>A bone crunches beneath his foot and he jumps, a hand flying to his chest as though to contain his rapidly beating heart. The bone splinters off into fragments and he desperately tries not to think about what deceased creature he’s just stepped on. </p>
<p>“There’s nothing even in here,” he murmurs to himself, “Nothing even here. Just a big dead monster.”</p>
<p>He comes into a wider space, an open cavern within the rock. The darkness persists, but his eyes have accustomed to the dim light that filters in from the cavern entrance and he is able to make out the shadowed shapes within. Bones lay scattered in one corner, piled together with what appears to be a collection of random items including a fence post and the wheel from a wagon. Stalactites cling to the ceiling, and something drips slowly into a rancid pool, a steady, eerie echo within the space. In the centre of the cavern, lays the monster.</p>
<p>Jaskier has never seen a dead cockatrice before, in fact, he has not seen an alive one either. Yet even in death the monster sends a thrill of fear coursing down his spine.</p>
<p>It’s a large creature, tossed onto its side. One wing is splayed out behind it while the other curves over its body, as though shielding itself even in death. Its beak is terrifyingly sharp and pointed, dipped in blood, a gaping hole where its tongue should be. Its tail curls around one of the legs, tipped with feathers.</p>
<p>What intensifies the horrid vision even further, is the way the creature has been almost stripped back to the bone. Feathers have been plucked by the handful, talons removed inexpertly, and hollow bones remain where eyes once sat. What is left behind is terrifyingly haunting. It has been picked near clean.</p>
<p>Hands grab at his shoulders.</p>
<p>“Jaskier.”</p>
<p>Jaskier startles and curses loudly.</p>
<p>“What the fuck!”</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Geralt asks.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s heart hammers, muscles tense. He forces himself to slow his breathing so that it whistles through his pursed lips.</p>
<p>“I wanted to look at the cockatrice.”</p>
<p>Geralt exhales in frustration. There is concern underneath the anger, simmering just below the surface.</p>
<p>“How many times have I told you to not wander off.”</p>
<p>Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I’m not a child Geralt. I only came in here because I knew you’d already cleared it out.” Geralt is still holding him by the shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Geralt’s lips twitch. A dash of humour tugs at them.</p>
<p>“You didn’t even try to protect yourself against me just then. What if I had been trying to kill you?”</p>
<p>“Oh sure, because an enemy will walk up behind me shouting my name.”</p>
<p>The twitch deepens, a smile appearing.</p>
<p>“You just threw your arms in the air like you were waving away an evil spirit.”</p>
<p>“Wasn’t too far off then,” Jaskier continues darkly. Geralt shakes his head, chuckling a little. When he laughs, Jaskier feels a puff of warmth against his forehead.</p>
<p>“Hopeless.”</p>
<p>He pulls back and puts his hands on his hips, surveying the cockatrice once more before his gaze falls back on Jaskier.</p>
<p>“Let’s get out of here.”</p>
<p>Jaskier nods in agreement.</p>
<p>They follow the cave tunnel back to the surface, guided by the dimming light of the sun that glints at the end of the shadows. As they walk, Geralt talks.</p>
<p>“I found a clearer path of tracks. We should be able to follow it.”</p>
<p>“Great,” Jaskier says.</p>
<p>“I can’t tell anything more about them. They are human, probably, big boots. Farmers? Military?”</p>
<p>“Why would soldiers be here?”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure.”</p>
<p>“We’ll find out.”</p>
<p>“Not yet though,” Geralt says firmly, “First, we rest.”</p>
<p>They near the entrance. Jaskier hadn’t realised how late it was. The last rays of sunlight disperse across the horizon, a sudden flash of gold before darkness blankets the sky.</p>
<p>“Right,” Jaskier says, “First we rest.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They set up camp not too far from the cave entrance. They don’t set up camp in the cave as Jaskier very vocally and convincingly pleads his case against sleeping near the dead cockatrice husk. They unfold their bedrolls, give Roach some food, and set a fire to ward off the darkness.</p>
<p>Jaskier has his notebook out, scribbling poetry across blank pages. His writing is not normally so incoherent, but when he is writing songs, he finds it easier to let the words flow without concern for their appearance. The quill he is holding stops suddenly and flutters hesitantly on a new line, pondering the right word.</p>
<p>A sharp rap to the top of his head snaps him from his thoughts.</p>
<p>“Get up,” Geralt says, with another touch of his knuckles to Jaskier’s head. Jaskier frowns at him, the hesitant quill flattened onto the page, words lost. He sighs and slams the book shut, placing it beside his bedroll.</p>
<p> “What is it?” he asks, standing.</p>
<p>Geralt looks him up and down. His eyes are alight with fire.</p>
<p>“I’m going to teach you how to fight.”</p>
<p>Jaskier blanches. He waves his hands in front of him, shaking his head.</p>
<p>“No, no, uh, I think I’m fine actually. You know, I really quite prefer having a strapping man step in to save me.” He goes to sit down but Geralt yanks him back up by the neck of his shirt.</p>
<p>“You’re gonna learn,” he growls.</p>
<p>Jaskier folds his arms across his chest, pouting like a petulant child.</p>
<p>“Why do I have to.”</p>
<p>“Because I can’t always be around to save you.”</p>
<p>It’s that fear again in his voice, the concern that has exposed itself more regularly of late. Jaskier looks at him for a moment, and concedes.</p>
<p>“Alright witcher, let’s go.”</p>
<p>Jaskier prepares himself, falling into a crouched stance with his fists raised. Geralt takes one look at him and snorts, a hand moving to rub his temple.</p>
<p>“This is going to be even harder than I expected.”</p>
<p>Jaskier drops his arms and rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“What do you expect? I’m a lover, not a fighter.”</p>
<p>“No reason you can’t be both.”</p>
<p>“I’m not usually expected to start a brawl once I’ve finished my songs you know. Not typically in the repertoire for a bard.”</p>
<p>Geralt smirks. “Well, think about it like this. Next time someone tells you that your music is garbage, you can throw a solid punch in their face.”</p>
<p>“That actually does sound quite appeal- wait! Who said my music was garbage?”</p>
<p>Geralt moves closer to him. His fingers encircle Jaskier’s wrist, the other hand pushing Jaskier’s arm into the correct position. Jaskier holds his arm steady as Geralt moves behind him, front pressed to Jaskier’s back. Fingers touch at his knee, his waist, his back, moulding his posture.</p>
<p>“Looks better,” Geralt says, from a place close behind Jaskier’s ear. “Now show me what you’ve got. Though be careful with your leg.”</p>
<p>Geralt whips around, arms up in a defensive stance. They spar for just a moment before Geralt has Jaskier’s arms pinned behind his back, breathing heavily against his neck. He grins; feral.</p>
<p>“You have to do better than that.”</p>
<p>Jaskier struggles against his grip, gaze fierce.</p>
<p>“Maybe you’ll have to teach me better than that.”</p>
<p>“Hm.”</p>
<p>Geralt lets him go and steps back. Jaskier rubs his arms, wincing.</p>
<p>“Follow what I do,” Geralt says.</p>
<p>He moves, slower this time, and together they go through the techniques. Geralt corrects each wrong move with a shake of the head and a touch to the arm. He is a more patient tutor than Jaskier expected. He laughs at Jaskier’s mistakes, but then helps him through it again, slowly, and most surprisingly, with encouragement.</p>
<p>“Again,” Geralt says, as Jaskier mirrors his movement. Jaskier flicks his hair out of his eyes, breathing heavy.</p>
<p>“I’m not as strong as you are,” he says.</p>
<p>“Maybe not, but you can still defend yourself. If you’re fast enough, they can’t hit you.”</p>
<p>He parries a few punches and shows Jaskier how to read movement. Jaskier laughs and jokes but listens well. He commits it to memory, the understanding of how weight falls to one side, how the muscles tense, the flash of a tell. This does not escape Geralt’s notice and Jaskier revels in the soft, pleased smiles Geralt throws in his direction at each improvement.</p>
<p>The evening stretches on as they move around the fire, shadows merged to form a single elongated being. It’s hot work, and by the end of their training, Jaskier has stripped down to his underclothes. Geralt has removed his shirt completely.</p>
<p>“One more,” Geralt says. “Show me what you’ve learnt.”</p>
<p>He swings a fist and Jaskier ducks out of the way, the knuckles just grazing the side of his ear. Geralt shifts his weight and moves, swinging again. Jaskier notes the change of balance and manages to counteract it with an arm raised in defence as he angles his head away. Geralt’s movements are deliberately slower at first, but they soon pick up. Geralt elbows him in the ribs, gentle enough but with certainty to leave a bruise.</p>
<p>He suddenly moves fast, so fast that Jaskier’s head whips around hard enough to strain his neck a little. Geralt grabs his arm again and pulls it behind him, pinning him into place.</p>
<p>“Guess you’re just going to have to keep practicing,” Geralt breathes, hot and heavy against his neck. The grip around his wrists relinquishes and Jaskier stumbles away from Geralt’s embrace.</p>
<p>“If I had managed to win in a fight against you after one night of training, I think the world would turn inside out.”</p>
<p>Geralt grins. He looks like he is only just touching the edge of exhaustion, as though he has gone for a gentle jog down a hill. In contrast, Jaskier thinks he must look like he has been running for days from a pack of hungry wolves up a mountain. He inhales a deep breath and stretches his arms over his head. His leg twinges a little from the exertion, but they made sure to contain the practice to upper body movement for a majority of the night, so Jaskier supposes he will feel better after some rest.</p>
<p>Geralt moves to grab his waterskin, downing it quickly. A drop of liquid escapes down his chin and travels down his neck. Jaskier looks away and finds his own water, wiping away the sweat on his forehead and decidedly ignoring the bare-chested witcher as they cool down and get ready for rest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He sleeps well that night, cocooned in his rough blanket. When he wakes, it’s to an empty camp, fire smouldering and Roach watching him reproachfully.</p>
<p>“What!” Jaskier says. The horse turns her head away. Jaskier groans, stretching out the knots in his back. He feels sore from the sparring yesterday and he hopes that it hasn’t affected the healing process of his wounds. He lifts his shirt to see the fresh pink skin still intact. His leg doesn’t hurt any more than usual, which is promising.</p>
<p>He gets to his feet and stumbles around the camp, still bleary and wide-eyed against the morning sun. He rubs a palm against his eye and blinks.</p>
<p>“Where even is Geralt,” he mutters. Roach snorts. Jaskier sighs.</p>
<p>“Well I know he wouldn’t leave you. Me, possibly, but not you. So, he must be here somewhere.”</p>
<p>Jaskier finds his boots and slips them over his feet. The ground is still chilled from the night air, the sun not having yet spread warmth across its surface.  A rabbit leaps out of the way as he stomps through the underbrush, narrowly avoiding a branch that thwacks into his arm instead of his head.</p>
<p>“Geralt!” he calls, “Where have you gone?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t have to go far to see a glimpse of the witcher hidden through the bracket of leaves ahead and he makes his way in that direction.</p>
<p>“Geralt!” he calls again. He trips on a stone and blunders out into the clearing. It’s only then that he realises Geralt is half submerged beneath the water of a lake. He was so focussed on finding him, that he hadn’t even noticed the sound of running water nearby, and he looks now, to see a cascade of water falling from a small cliff, pooling into the lake below. Geralt looks up at his approach.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he asks. He has tied his wet hair into a bun on his head, keeping it out of his eyes. The sunlight dances off the ripples in the lake, sparkling against his naked chest. A rivulet of water traces a path across his abdomen, disappearing into the depths of the lake below.</p>
<p>“Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I wasn’t sure where you went.”</p>
<p>“I’m bathing.”</p>
<p>Jaskier nods and ducks his head, offering him a thin smile. “I can see that Geralt.”  He squints at him. “Where are your clothes?”</p>
<p>Geralt gestures towards the dusty edge of the lake where Jaskier can see them bundled into a pile.</p>
<p>“Right,” Jaskier says mostly to himself, “Well then.” He wanders over to where Geralt has left his clothes and stoops down to pull of his boots. Geralt watches him.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Joining you.”</p>
<p>Geralt makes a sound, though Jaskier can’t entirely tell if it’s displeasure or indifference.  Geralt’s gaze is still focussed on him, and Jaskier flushes slightly; embarrassed.</p>
<p>“Turn around,” he chides and Geralt obliges.</p>
<p>Jaskier finishes undressing and slips into the water. It’s freezing, so much colder than he imagined, and he feels his entire body tensing as the chill encompasses him. He ducks his head under the water and resurfaces, exhaling loudly.</p>
<p>“Fuck that’s cold!”</p>
<p>Geralt turns to look at him again, amused.</p>
<p>“What did you expect?”</p>
<p>“You make it look like it’s a hot spring. How are you not freezing?”</p>
<p>Geralt shrugs. Jaskier shakes his head in disbelief. He scrubs at himself with his hands, wishing he had something else to use. As he flexes one arm out to clean, he can see the dirt ingrained into his skin. He wrinkles his nose in disgust.</p>
<p>“Here,” Geralt says. He’s moved closer, and he holds a cloth in one hand. “Use this.” He tosses it in Jaskier’s direction and Jaskier takes it gratefully. He scrubs himself and ducks his head beneath the water again. He flicks his hair and runs his fingers through it, untangling the knots.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Jaskier says, passing the cloth back to Geralt. Geralt takes it and drapes it over his shoulders. His bare chest is covered in scars, some deep, others just lightly marring the surface of his skin. They speak of so many stories, echoing a long history that Jaskier supposes he will never truly know. The medallion, as always, dangles from his neck, glinting with wet shine.</p>
<p>“Are you finished or are you going to just keep staring at my chest?” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier blanches, feeling a flush crawl up the back of his neck.</p>
<p>“I was just thinking,” he mumbles, “You have so many scars.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I do. You have a keen eye,” Geralt says dryly.</p>
<p>“Do they hurt?” Jaskier asks, curious. A pale eyebrow rises.</p>
<p>“No, they don’t. They’re just memories. Ghosts of my past.”</p>
<p>It is perhaps in a moment of madness, that Jaskier reaches out and places a hand against Geralt’s chest. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him, surprise pooling in their depths, yet Geralt makes no effort to stop him. Jaskier’s fingers, pale with the chill of the lake, brush the scarred tissue. It feels smooth but puckers slightly in places. When he moves his hand, Jaskier can feel the steady thrum of Geralt’s heartbeat beneath his fingertips.</p>
<p>Jaskier inhales and meets Geralt’s eyes. He is so close to Geralt that he can see the flecks of amber hidden inside the gold irises. He expects Geralt to move away, and is surprised when instead, Geralt steps even closer and rough fingers circle around his wrist.</p>
<p>“Jaskier,” he begins, a rumble in his throat. “What are you doing?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t sound upset, Jaskier thinks distantly. He just sounds confused.</p>
<p>Jaskier swallows. He can see a dash of freckles against Geralt’s cheek, the eyelashes that open and shut over those striking eyes, the dry skin on the bridge of his nose.</p>
<p>“I was just thinking,” Jaskier breathes, a mere whisper between them, “I was just wondering what it’s like to have lived through so much.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s eyes are so dark and wide, a yawning portal that threatens to encompass him and drag him into their depths. They are mesmerising and he finds he cannot look away.</p>
<p>The hand circling Jaskier’s wrist falls suddenly with a splash into the water. The sound seems to startle them both from the moment and they each move back a step. Jaskier blinks rapidly, no longer feeling the chill of the lake. Instead, something hot curls inside his stomach. Shame, embarrassment, desire – he is not sure. He chances a glance at Geralt who has turned his back on Jaskier now and is making his way to the shore to collect his clothes.</p>
<p>Jaskier runs his fingers through the water and watches the ripples expand from his touch. His reflection wavers in the watery depths, tired and confused.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They pack up camp with only a few spare words thrown between them. There is a slight discomfort in the air, which Jaskier valiantly attempts to disperse with some deliberately terrible jokes. Geralt only offers him vague smiles in response and saddles Roach quickly.</p>
<p>“How is your leg today?” Geralt asks, a glance in his direction.</p>
<p>“Fine. No difference from usual.”</p>
<p>“Good.”</p>
<p>Geralt pulls himself up into the saddle, heels just touching her ribs. Jaskier looks at him and makes a decision.</p>
<p>“You know, it might be good to stretch it out a bit. It’s been stationary for so long. I could try to give it a go and walk instead of ride today?”</p>
<p>Geralt looks hesitant. There is an instantaneous battle that plays out silently behind his eyes. Jaskier isn’t sure how well his leg will hold up walking long distances, but he doesn’t feel like riding behind Geralt today. He is increasingly aware of this question that intensifies between them.</p>
<p>“It will slow us down,” Geralt says.</p>
<p>“There’s no rush for where we are going. The cockatrice is dead, isn’t it? Now we just follow where our leads take us. Besides, it might be nice for Roach to have a rest for once.”</p>
<p>“Hm.”</p>
<p>It’s an admission, an agreement perhaps. Whatever it is, Jaskier takes this as a small victory.</p>
<p>“Besides, it will give me some time to play some tunes,” he says, opening the lute case to remove his instrument. Geralt’s expression darkens for a moment and Jaskier wonders if perhaps music is a step too far, but he says nothing.</p>
<p>“Just tell me if your leg hurts. You want to be careful,” he says. Jaskier chooses not to voice the fact that it was Geralt who literally decided that they should practice sparring yesterday, which had a much higher potential for leg damage.</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>Jaskier lets his fingers wander lazily across the lute strings, Roach’s hooves falling to step in time beside him. Geralt sits straight in the saddle, stiff and silent. Jaskier watches him as he hums a nondescript tune. They pass through the forest together, following around the edge of the mountain.</p>
<p>After exhausting his repertoire of music and fiddling around with some new tunes, Jaskier takes a pause.</p>
<p>“Any requests?” he asks. Geralt doesn’t reply.</p>
<p>“Oh, I unfortunately don’t know that one,” Jaskier says wryly. Geralt turns to look at him, expression blank.</p>
<p>“Do you ever think that perhaps playing music while walking through a wild area is not the greatest idea?”</p>
<p>Jaskier shrugs. “You already told me that my sense of self-preservation was lost. What did you expect?”</p>
<p>“Well some of us like to try to stay alive.”</p>
<p>“Not sure who you’re talking about because your actual job is to run into danger every day.”</p>
<p>“Yes. I get paid to do it. I am not paying you to entice monsters out of the forest.”</p>
<p>Jaskier meets his gaze with a grin.</p>
<p>“Now that’s a plan! Maybe a future business venture?”</p>
<p>“Shut up, Jaskier.”</p>
<p>“Okay I will take that as a maybe, duly noted!”</p>
<p>Jaskier does not miss the hint of amusement on Geralt’s face, caught in the tug of his lips. A sense of satisfaction curls inside him. It is an unbidden thing, that soft smile of Geralt’s. It slips through unnoticed, a hidden kind of amusement, so faint that it is barely recognisable. Jaskier finds that he yearns for it.</p>
<p>Geralt has relaxed somewhat, shoulders slumping forward a little as he rides, hands holding the reigns more loosely.</p>
<p>“So ah, where exactly are we going then?” Jaskier asks.</p>
<p>“We’re following those footprints from near the cockatrice cave.”</p>
<p>Jaskier frowns at him.</p>
<p>“You really can’t let this go.”</p>
<p>“I told you I have a-”</p>
<p>“Strange feeling about this yes, I know. Wish I had such strong internal instincts. The only strange internal instinct I have is the feeling when I drink too much milk.”</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“It makes me sick,” Jaskier whispers conspiratorially. Geralt closes his eyes and inhales deeply. His jaw is set stiff against frustration. Jaskier hides an amused grin by tilting his head forward.</p>
<p>“So, what are we going to do when we find these cockatrice killers?”</p>
<p>“Not sure.”</p>
<p>“Making it up as we go along? Sounds like my kind of plan.”</p>
<p>They slow as they come to an open hill. There is the wisp of a breeze that floats through the air, teasing the blades of grass to dance in time. The heat of the sun is far stronger now, and the light is blinding. Jaskier raises a hand to shield his eyes as he looks over the area.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he asks.</p>
<p>Geralt slides off the saddle, followed closely by Jaskier.</p>
<p>“Tracks. A group of men merged here. Heavy footprints.” He sniffs. “Smoke. There’s a campfire nearby.”</p>
<p>There’s something riveting about the way Geralt works. His eyebrows drawn taut together, gaze scanning the area with ease. His entire body is tense, thrumming with a sense of energy just waiting to be unleashed. Most people notice Geralt’s inordinate skill when witnessing him fight. Jaskier feels that somehow the quiet moments like this are almost more astonishing.</p>
<p>Geralt notices his gaze.</p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>Jaskier flushes and looks away, embarrassed at being caught out.</p>
<p>“It’s nothing.”</p>
<p>He watches Jaskier for a moment, inquisitive, before he wraps Roach’s reins around his wrist and continues forward at a slower walk beside Jaskier. The grass they walk through is long and it nudges against Jaskier’s knees. Insects buzz and flit around them, itchy gnats that bite at exposed skin. He slaps one that lands on the back of his hand, leaving a small red imprint behind.</p>
<p>They come across the campfire just over the hill, smouldering and recently abandoned. The bones of an animal lay scattered around the camp, an apparent remnant of a meal.</p>
<p>“We should follow them,” he says, “They aren’t long gone. Their tracks are still fresh.”</p>
<p>Jaskier catches at his wrist.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he says, voice low, “Aren’t you at all concerned about this? You’re not sure who these people are but you said you had a bad feeling. They might be dangerous.”</p>
<p>“That’s why we need to find them.”</p>
<p>He takes off again, Roach in tow. Jaskier sighs and follows, anxiety prickling up his spine. As they reach a fork in the road, the trail breaks away, disappearing in the grass. Geralt frowns. He opens his mouth as though he is about to comment on this when he stills suddenly, hand moving quickly to grasp the hilt of his sword. Jaskier instinctively moves closer, a hand reaching out to catch Geralt’s arm.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he hisses.</p>
<p>“Someone is watching us.”</p>
<p>As though on cue, figures emerge from the trees around them. There are four of them, rough looking men with scraggly beards and raised swords. One of them, a man with a white cloth tied around his neck, brandishes his sword in their direction.</p>
<p>“We wondered when you might show up witcher,” he says, voice like heavy stones grinding together.</p>
<p>One of the other men spits on the ground, displaying a feral grin. Geralt narrows his eyes.</p>
<p>“Why did you kill the cockatrice.”</p>
<p>The white-cloth man smirks.</p>
<p>“Just doin’ our civic duty o’course.”</p>
<p>“Hm. What do you do with all of the parts?”</p>
<p>“Now, now witcher, sounds like someone is sore they couldn’t get to the cockatrice first.”</p>
<p>“I don’t give a fuck who kills or doesn’t kill monsters. Do you know about the other cockatrice too?”</p>
<p>The man laughs and twirls his sword slightly in the air, tracing a circle.</p>
<p>“Touchy. Why don’t we all jus’ calm down a moment.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s fingers clench tighter around the hilt of his sword, knuckles going white. He narrows his eyes.</p>
<p>“You knew I was coming for it didn’t you? Why did you want to get to it first?”</p>
<p>The man exhales slowly. His smirk widens until it becomes something more cruel than amused, relishing in their exchange.</p>
<p>“Whoever told you that?” he says.</p>
<p>Jaskier isn’t sure who attacks first, but within an instant, there is the clang of steel against steel as swords whip around in a clash of blades. He ducks away, waiting near Roach as Geralt engages in the fight. Geralt dodges and parries with ease, winding one man before stabbing another.</p>
<p>As Geralt is distracted by three of the men, the fourth comes from behind. He seems too caught up with the others to notice. Jaskier barely has time to think, before he is running out across the ground, boots smacking into the dirt as he hits the man square in the jaw. The man falters, blood spiralling from his nose.  </p>
<p>It’s far more difficult to fight in real time. With less than an instant to consider his options, Jaskier loses some of his footing quickly and only regains it when the man falls forward, still slightly dizzy from the knock to his head. Jaskier, almost by accident, moves his arm up as the man moves downward to dodge. There is a sickening crack as an elbow connects with a chin. The man falls promptly to the ground, unconscious. </p>
<p>Jaskier bends over a little, hands on his knees as he struggles to get his breath back to normal. The sun burns his forehead, sweat dripping down his temples. The man isn’t dead, but he is knocked out cold. Jaskier is fine with this, he is not entirely sure how to feel about actually killing a man.</p>
<p>It takes him a few moments to realise that the fighting behind him has stopped. He turns to see three dead bodies on the ground and Geralt standing there, staring at him with an incomprehensible look. He is still holding his sword, the blade wet with blood that drips slowly and steadily to stain the dirt below.</p>
<p>“You hit him,” Geralt says. He looks almost shocked, perhaps proud. It’s hard to tell. Regardless, he is clearly rattled.</p>
<p>Jaskier places his hands on his hips, grimacing as he looks at the unconscious body in front of him.</p>
<p>“Guess you aren’t the worst teacher after all.”</p>
<p>Geralt blinks. There is a flush to his cheeks, perhaps from the heat of the sun or the stress of battle. Jaskier looks away.</p>
<p>“What did they want from you?”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure. Check their packs.”</p>
<p>They get to work searching through the bodies. Jaskier finds a few coins that he tucks into the palm of his hand. He also finds a notebook riddled with writing.</p>
<p>“Look at this,” he says to Geralt, flicking through the pages. “It mentions the cockatrice. It mentions <em>multiple</em> cockatrice.” He pauses. “Wait is that cockatrices or cockatri? Or neither?”</p>
<p>Geralt comes over, peering over his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Interesting,” he murmurs. Their fingers overlap for a moment as Geralt moves to flick through the pages. “They’ve been hunting cockatrice.” His hand falters above one of the pages, touching against a symbol inked on the surface.</p>
<p>“This is the same…” he lets go on the book and wanders off, rifling through the pack he had just been searching. “Here!” He tugs a map out of the pack and unfurls it, jabbing a finger onto the parchment. “That symbol again, it’s everywhere. All around here.”</p>
<p>“What does it mean?”</p>
<p>“Not sure, but it looks like they are using it to identify the cockatrice.”</p>
<p>Jaskier frowns, pursing his lips.</p>
<p>“Does that mean…there are more of them?”</p>
<p>“From the look of this map, lots more.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t that odd?”</p>
<p>Geralt rolls the parchment back up and tucks it beneath his arm.</p>
<p>“Very. There should not be so many in one area. It doesn’t make sense.”</p>
<p>“Look here,” Jaskier says, holding the notebook open, “It mentions a word, Dygin. Do you know what that is?”</p>
<p>Geralt takes the book from Jaskier, inspecting it closer before shaking his head.</p>
<p>“Not sure.”</p>
<p>“We can ask around. If there is anyone who lives near here, maybe they can help us out.”</p>
<p>They take what they need, leaving the bodies in the sun. Although he hopes the unconscious man won’t die, he does offer a quick prayer to whatever God is listening in hope that the man gets intensely sunburned instead.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They only need to follow the road for a short while before they come across a man driving a cart and horse. He tips his hat towards them as he nears and exchanges some quick words with Geralt, pointing them in the direction towards the closest town. They thank him and continue on their way.</p>
<p>The town is not too far, just hidden in the depths of a valley beyond the hills. It is small and secluded, with expansive farmland spreading from the village centre. The signpost hammered into the grass is missing its sign, leaving behind a rotting plank of wood.</p>
<p>“Charming place,” Jaskier says as his foot sinks deep in a puddle. He glares at the ground and shakes his leg to dry it a little.</p>
<p>“They all look the same to me,” Geralt says.</p>
<p>There are about a dozen houses that line the path. Smoke unfurls from stone chimneys, children play in the grass, and a lazy dog sleeps, belly to the sun against a wooden stump. It seems peaceful here; untouched and sacred.</p>
<p>The tavern is the largest building on the main road and they continue towards it. The door swings open as a drunk man lurches outside, retching onto the grass. Jaskier sidesteps him with ease, wrinkling his nose in distaste.</p>
<p>“Always a pleasure,” he says wryly.</p>
<p>Inside, it is a cosy thing. A fire blazing in the hearth, a few men seated at long tables with drinks in their hands and laughter in their eyes. A card game is in progress by one corner, pushed into the shadows as its participants sit silently, poised for victory. Geralt wanders up to the man behind the bar. He is an older fellow, receding hairline and round belly draped in a dirty apron.</p>
<p>“What’ll you have?” he asks, a quick nod to Geralt.</p>
<p>“I have some questions,” Geralt says. He leans forward, elbows against the edge of the bar. Jaskier hangs back, watching from behind. A lady moves past him balancing a set of drinks in her hands. She glances at him and smiles sweetly. Jaskier returns it with a raise of his eyebrows.</p>
<p>The barman grunts.</p>
<p>“Ask then.”</p>
<p>“Have you seen any cockatrice around?”</p>
<p>The barman frowns. He scrubs the inside of a mug and inspects it closely, before he puts it off to one side.</p>
<p>“No more than usual.”</p>
<p>“And how many is that?”</p>
<p>He shrugs.</p>
<p>“A few.”</p>
<p>“That’s a few more than most towns generally speaking,” Geralt mutters beneath his breath. “What are you hiding?”</p>
<p>The barman looks relatively unfazed, but his eyes glint with danger.</p>
<p>“Are you threatening me?”</p>
<p>Jaskier slides in beside Geralt, elbowing him in the ribs none too lightly. He flashes the man a brilliant smile.</p>
<p>“Apologies kind sir for my friend. He does not get out often and he sometimes forgets his manners.”</p>
<p>Jaskier feels Geralt’s gaze on him, frustration palpable. Jaskier wraps a subtle arm around his waist, hidden from the view of the barman. Geralt tenses at the touch and Jaskier pinches him, just slightly – an attempt to keep him in check. With his free arm, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crown.</p>
<p>“We would appreciate any information you might be willing to offer,” he says, sliding his hand across the counter. He lifts it away and the coin glints in the light of a nearby lamp.</p>
<p>The barman takes it and the tension leeches from his shoulders. He rests on his elbows, watching them both.</p>
<p>“The cockatrice don’t bring us much bother except for occasionally missing livestock,” he says, voice low. “The men say it’s a worthy trade though.”</p>
<p>Jaskier tilts his head.</p>
<p>“And what might your reward for the trade be?”</p>
<p>“Safety.”</p>
<p>“From the cockatrice?”</p>
<p>The barman looks frazzled for a moment, running a hand through grimy hair.</p>
<p>“No,” he says, eyes glancing away, “Not that.”</p>
<p>Jaskier sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out two more crowns. He slips them to the barman and waits in anticipation. It takes a moment for the man to settle and when he does, his mouth remains a thin line, pressed against a grimace.</p>
<p>“You need to talk to one of the men,” he says. “They know the most. White cloths, look for them around.”</p>
<p>Jaskier nods and thanks the barkeep, tugging Geralt towards a quieter corner. His hand lingers around Geralt’s waist a moment too long before it slips away. He can tell Geralt notices, but the witcher makes no comment.</p>
<p>“What do you think that means?” Jaskier says, keeping his voice low. He stands close to Geralt so they are not overheard. There is a lack of subtlety in their approach, whispering in the shadows, but Jaskier pays it no mind.</p>
<p>“Look,” Geralt says, nodding out towards the tavern. He taps Jaskier’s shoulder gently. “You can see them. Men with those white cloths tied around their necks, the same as those who attacked us.”</p>
<p>Jaskier follows his gaze. One of them stands by the fire, watching it with a sullen expression. Another flirts with the waitress. They seem relatively ordinary, nothing sinister or suspicious about them.</p>
<p>“Should we talk to them?”</p>
<p>“Not yet,” Geralt says, “Let’s sit and watch them for a while. Get a feel for what’s going on first.”</p>
<p>They find an empty table and sit down. Geralt flicks the waitress over and orders two drinks for them. She returns quickly, placing them down, and flashes another smile in Jaskier’s direction, eyes shy but full of promise. He smiles at her and she walks away, throwing one glance over her shoulder as she does so, just to check that Jaskier is still watching. He is.</p>
<p>A leg bumps his beneath the table. Geralt looks at him, unsmiling.</p>
<p>“Don’t do it Jaskier,” he growls. Jaskier takes a sip of his drink, the condensed liquid on the side of the glass melting against his fingertips.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>It’s a good drink, strong though. It burns his throat as he swallows, settling a comfortable warmth in his belly. He licks his lips in satisfaction. Geralt sighs.</p>
<p>“You know what I’m talking about. We’re not going to be here for long.”</p>
<p>“How long do you think <em>that’s</em> going to take?”</p>
<p>“We need to keep on task.”</p>
<p>“It’s never stopped you before.”</p>
<p>The leg pressed into his beneath the table has not moved. The warmth in his belly unsettles, a gentle spike of curiosity. Geralt steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them, watching Jaskier closely. His eyes seem darker in the low light of the scattered lamps. Jaskier swallows.</p>
<p>“I thought we were supposed to be watching the men,” Jaskier says, voice low. It comes out slightly too rough.</p>
<p>“We are.”</p>
<p>“Then why are you staring at me?”</p>
<p>Geralt blinks and there is an odd flash of embarrassment that crosses his eyes for a moment. The recognition surprises Jaskier – it’s unexpected to see the witcher caught off guard. Geralt’s hands fall the table, one clutching his drink as though a lifeline to free him from the awkward situation. He glances away.</p>
<p>“They’re not doing much,” he says.</p>
<p>Jaskier follows his gaze. The sullen man near the fire looks like he might be slowly falling asleep. His eyes droop closed for a few moments before they flutter open again, valiantly fighting to stay awake.</p>
<p>“This place needs some music,” Jaskier says, a solitary finger tapping against his glass. Geralt’s gaze immediately flicks back to his.</p>
<p>“Don’t,” he warns. Jaskier grins and leans forward, amused.</p>
<p>“I barely even have to try to get you riled up now,” he says with a laugh. Geralt glares at him. The leg against his moves away and kicks at his shin.</p>
<p>“We need to lay low.”</p>
<p>Jaskier snorts into his drink.</p>
<p>“I think a witcher walking into the tiniest town in the world and threatening the barkeep is not the way to lay low.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t threaten him,” Geralt says. Jaskier just raises both eyebrows and takes another sip of his drink. The warmth in his belly has spread outwards now, enveloping him in its comforting presence. His head is a bit lighter, and he feels himself relaxing into his seat.</p>
<p>“You are probably the least subtle person I know,” Jaskier says.</p>
<p>“You’re one to talk.”</p>
<p>Jaskier slams a fist on the table in protest.</p>
<p>“Excuse me, I can be subtle!” he says at what he thinks is a whisper, though a few people look at him so perhaps the drink has gone more to his head than he thought. Regardless, he pays them no notice. Geralt grabs at his hand, shushing him.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Geralt says, laughter in his eyes, “You’re <em>very</em> subtle.”</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles at their joined hands. Geralt’s hands are rough and warm.</p>
<p>“Fine, no music,” he says. “Guess you’ll just get it all to yourself.”</p>
<p>“I’m honoured,” Geralt replies dryly.  </p>
<p>“You should be.”</p>
<p>Geralt retracts his hand so he can take another drink. A few men stumble out of the door on their way home for the night. One of them is a man with a white cloth tied around his neck. A gust of cold air wanders in with their retreat. It teases Geralt’s hair and unsettles it from his shoulders. A few strands fall over his eyes. Geralt tucks them behind his ear.</p>
<p>“This is nice,” Jaskier muses. He doesn’t even realise he’s spoken aloud until Geralt turns inquisitive eyes towards him.</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“Nothing.” Jaskier shakes his head. His drink is almost gone now, just a mouthful of dark liquid left. He rotates the glass and it moves in a rhythmic circle, like the waves of an ocean contained in miniature.  He tips it up and swallows it.</p>
<p>Geralt has shifted out of his jacket and is left in his shirt. His sleeves bunch around his forearms and his shirt gapes wide around his chest. Jaskier could almost pretend, as he did in the woods, that it’s just the two of them. That this is how it will always be.</p>
<p>“We’re doing a shit job of watching these men,” Geralt says.</p>
<p>Jaskier shrugs.</p>
<p>“There are more interesting things to look at.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s eyes snap to his. A rush of heat follows but Jaskier doesn’t look away. He notices that Geralt’s jaw is taut, tension brewing. His beard is growing longer, pale hairs smoothing down his chin. He should get it shaved. Jaskier tells him as much.</p>
<p>“After this we can find a barber in a city,” Geralt says, “I don’t trust the small-town ones.”</p>
<p><em>After this</em>, he thinks, ruminating on the words. After this seems too close now. It is an ominous event on the horizon, dark storm clouds rolling in. It is the unknown.</p>
<p>“Surely a city is more dangerous,” Jaskier says.</p>
<p>Geralt shrugs.</p>
<p>“I could do it,” Jaskier supplies helpfully. He smiles and Geralt looks at him, disbelieving.</p>
<p>“Jaskier, I would barely trust you with a sharp stick let alone an actual weapon near my face.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you.”</p>
<p>“Besides, I’m not opposed to the beard.”</p>
<p>Truthfully, neither is Jaskier. It doesn’t stop him rolling his eyes anyway.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They exchange pleasant conversation for a good length of time, their original task a hazy memory behind them. Jaskier takes out his book while they talk, noting down some new ideas for his song as he listens to Geralt’s stories. Geralt is relaxed here, whether it be the drink or the place, or perhaps, even the company, he lounges in his chair with a loose arm thrown against the table and his legs splayed out underneath. His eyes are less shuttered, expressions less reserved. Genuine smiles and laughter spill from deep within his throat.</p>
<p>He is beautiful, Jaskier thinks distantly, a word he never thought he would ascribe to the other man.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After the lamps are extinguished and the patrons of the tavern slowly trickle away, they are left alone to retreat to their room which they do with murmured words and exchanged smiles.</p>
<p>“Sleep well,” Jaskier says. Fingers brush together, uncertain, indecisive. It is not unlike a caress. Geralt’s eyes are sharp in the darkness. He nods.</p>
<p>“Sleep well.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. acceptance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier wakes to the sound of shouting outside. His head feels heavy as he blinks his eyes open, surveying the empty space around him. The sun is strong, pooling on the floor of the room. It seems that morning has well and truly past.</p><p>Geralt is nowhere to be seen, so Jaskier pulls on his clothes and pads down the stairs towards the sound of laughing and cheering that swells below him. As he enters the room, he sees a group of men all standing around a table. Between the shifting figures he catches a glimpse of pale hair.</p><p>“What have you done now Geralt,” he mutters, dragging himself over towards them.</p><p>As the crowd jostles around him, Jaskier finds Geralt sitting down with one elbow resting on the table. He sits opposite another man, a huge hulking figure who clasps his hand with a strained expression. The hands, joined together, tremble and waver, small minute movements one way and then the other. Geralt grins, sharp eyes and sharp teeth – he is showing off.</p><p>Jaskier crosses his arms and waits. He doesn’t have to wait long. There is a dull roar as Geralt slams the other man’s hand onto the table. Money is exchanged, slipping between rough palms with ease. The huge man stands and nods to Geralt, an acknowledgement of his victory, and then leaves. Slowly, the crowd disperses in his wake, finally leaving Geralt exposed. His eyes flick up to look at Jaskier as he pockets the small earnings of his win. </p><p>“Good morning, he says.</p><p>Jaskier rolls his eyes.</p><p>“We can’t get distracted Jaskier. We need to stay on task Jaskier,” he mocks in a whiny voice. Geralt raises his hands defensively.</p><p>“You were sleeping. I was bored.”</p><p>“You could have woken me! It must be almost midday already.”</p><p>“Looked like you needed the sleep.”</p><p>“Don’t even try to make this about me.”</p><p>Geralt grins. Jaskier could get used to this Geralt, his smile seems to come easier now.</p><p>“At least those bags under your eyes are gone,” Geralt says.</p><p>Jaskier touches at his face self-consciously as Geralt stands and stretches out his arms, flexing his wrists.</p><p>“Don’t stress Jaskier, you look fine now,” he says flippantly, and not at all reassuringly. Jaskier frowns.</p><p>“Are you telling me there was a point when I didn’t look fine?”</p><p>“I would never say that.”</p><p>Jaskier narrows his eyes suspiciously, as Geralt walks over to him. A hand pats him on the shoulder.</p><p>“You’re good,” he says, leaning close. He smiles again, softer, more gentle. It does something to Jaskier’s insides that feels like it involves his intestines doing an impressive acrobatic manoeuvre.</p><p> “Hm,” Jaskier replies, a strangled sort of aborted sound that sounds oddly like the witcher.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They pack up their necessary bags, leaving their larger packs in the room at the expectation that they will return for at least another night. The plan, Geralt discusses with him as they organise their things, is to talk to the townsfolk, gather information, and gain a better idea of who these men might be. It’s a way to find out how concerned they should be and what preparations they might need to address the next part of their plan: interrogating the men who wear the white cloths.</p><p>It’s a consideration that seems out of character, a hesitation before the attack that Jaskier is not used to seeing from Geralt. Although Jaskier might have a terrible knack for self-preservation, he certainly does not plan to die anytime soon and a newfound cautiousness from the witcher seems convenient to that cause at least. Perhaps he is changing for the better.</p><p>Village life is in full swing as they leave the tavern. The clang of a blacksmith hammer rings out across the road, a man tries to sell apples to those who pass him by, and a woman sweeps the dirt off the steps to her house. Despite how small the village is, it seems to burst at the seams with life, an orchestral movement of mundanity.</p><p>As they wander the road, many turn to stare at the strange duo. The looks are not unkind, but they are far from subtle. It is clearly a curiosity for them to see new arrivals in their small town, a novel experience to see an unfamiliar face. A child comes to a screeching halt in front of Geralt and looks at him, scrunching his nose.  </p><p>“Why do you have funny eyes?” he says, squinting up at Geralt. Geralt blinks down at him and lowers himself to one knee, getting closer to his level.</p><p>“So I can set my enemies on fire,” Geralt replies.</p><p>“Yuck,” the child says, looking unconvinced. He bounces away down the road, feet kicking at the stones as he goes. Jaskier laughs and claps Geralt on the back.</p><p>“You’d make a great father,” he says. Geralt looks at him and Jaskier blanches.</p><p>“Sorry,” he mumbles, “Touchy subject, I know.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They continue on, Jaskier following Geralt’s lead. A group of men lounge by a house, sitting on overturned barrels as they play a game with dice. They look up as Geralt and Jaskier approach.</p><p>“A witcher?” one says, eyebrow rising, “Don’t see too many of you lot around these parts.”</p><p>Geralt sits down on a spare barrel, leaving no room for Jaskier who huffs and stands off to the side awkwardly.</p><p>“What brings you here?” asks another man, interest piqued. The dice clatter against the wood.</p><p>“We’re looking for something out of place. Has anything been happening around here lately? Anything strange?”</p><p>“Nothin’ different from the usual.”</p><p>“No monsters?”</p><p>“None.”</p><p>Jaskier notices the slight shifts in posture and the way their eyes drift back to the dice. It is the look of discomfort, of supressed words.</p><p>“Would you gentlemen perhaps know anything about something called a Dygin?” Jaskier interjects.</p><p>One of the men fumbles the dice and it rolls over the lip of the barrel, dropping to the dirt. He picks it up with a swift motion and replaces it. The discomfort is clearly visible now.</p><p>“Dygin’s not a what but a who.”</p><p>“You know who he is?” Jaskier asks, uncrossing his arms to move closer. He exchanges a look with Geralt.</p><p> “He’s the ol’ pellar down in the woods. Quiet man, keeps mostly to himself.”</p><p> “And is this Dygin related at all to those men who walk around with the white cloths?”</p><p>The man looks at him with a frown.</p><p>“What’s it to you anyway?”</p><p>Geralt leans forward, elbows bent on knees.</p><p>“We’re interested in meeting him.”</p><p>“Well then talk to one of those men you’ve been watching.”</p><p>“White cloths?”</p><p>“The same.”</p><p>Geralt stands and nods pleasantly in the direction of the men.</p><p>“Thanks for the help,” he murmurs. Dice rolls around on the barrel and the men return to their game. Geralt steps aside, walking a short distance away from the group to find a more isolated area, safe to talk without being overheard.</p><p>“Interesting,” Jaskier says as they step into the shadow of a building. “Why does everyone act like we’re assassins out to murder him?”</p><p>“They’re hiding something,” Geralt replies, mouth set into a grim line. His eyes flick down to meet Jaskier’s. Their heads are close, bowed together. “They don’t want to talk about the pellar.”</p><p>Jaskier nods slowly. He leans a shoulder against the building, taking the weight off one of his feet.</p><p>“A quiet old pellar in the woods doesn’t sound that suspicious.”</p><p>“No, it doesn’t,” Geralt muses, a frown settling between his brows, “Which makes it more unusual.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs.</p><p>“How is it that we always get caught up in these strange stories?”</p><p>“Guess we just have a knack for them,” Geralt says with a grim look. There is a fevered exhilaration to his expression, captured within the wide eyes and the twitch of a smile fighting against the pull of his lips. This kind of thing, it excites him.</p><p>Geralt pulls away from the shadowed wall. His gaze falls out across the town, traversing the small huts with smoking chimneys, the expanse of farmland stretching out across the horizon, and the huddle of trees off in the distance.</p><p>“I have a-”</p><p>“Strange feeling about this. Yes, I know”</p><p>Geralt exchanges a look with Jaskier. It is warm, almost fond, in a strange way that Jaskier can’t quite define. He isn’t entirely sure what he has done to deserve the look, but he accepts it with a sense of pleasant surprise, satisfaction settling somewhere deep inside him.</p><p>“I know we planned to ask around a bit more first but, I think we should just go talk to the men,” Jaskier says.</p><p>Geralt nods. A fly descends onto his arm and he swats it away. It buzzes aggressively and zips past his head in a flash.</p><p>“They might be dangerous,” Geralt says softly, the words held only between the two of them. “Be ready.”</p><p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow, amusement settling into the upturn of his mouth.</p><p>“Sometimes I wonder if you forget I’m only a troubled bard,” he says.</p><p>“Sometimes I wonder if you forget that too,” Geralt replies. A new smile spreads across his lips as Jaskier makes a face at him.</p><p>“Guess I’ll just have to play the lute more often then, so we both don’t forget.”</p><p>Geralt touches a hand to his chest despairingly.</p><p>“Oh please, anything other than that!”</p><p>A strangled laugh sounds from Jaskier’s throat. Geralt’s smile widens into a grin, his eyes gleaming.</p><p>“I will pretend that I didn’t hear that,” Jaskier says turning away. He peels himself away from the shadow of the hut and returns to the sun, walking with sure steps across the grass. Geralt slips into stride beside him.</p><p>Again, Jaskier muses on their relationship as he walks. He wonders how it became this easy with Geralt. It seems so simple to fall into teasing words and genuine smiles.</p><p>“This way,” Geralt says suddenly, low against his ear. Fingers touch at his elbow, gearing him towards the left. Jaskier tilts his head to see two men gathering herbs from a garden. The men seem inconspicuous enough and would appear completely indistinct if not for the white cloths tied around both of their necks.</p><p>They look up at the approach, stilling in their movement. A handful of green sprigs cascades from between clenched fingers.</p><p>“Can we help you?” one of the men asks.</p><p>Geralt leans against a fence post perceiving them, golden eyes sharp.</p><p>“You might. We are looking for Dygin.”</p><p>A look is exchanged and an imperceptible emotion flickers between them, a flash held only momentarily between the shared gaze. Jaskier feels a twinge of unease at the base of his spine. One of the men places his collection of plants into a basket and stands, brushing the dirt from his hands on the old apron he wears. He nods towards Geralt.</p><p>“I’m Samwell. And you are?”</p><p>“Geralt. And this is Jaskier.”</p><p>Jaskier offers a thin-lipped smile with a short wave of his hand at the mention of his name.</p><p>“We don’t get many visitors here in these parts, ‘specially not witchers,” Samwell says, squinting against the sun. He wipes a hand across his forehead. “What do you want with him anyway?”</p><p>“We thought he might know something about a cockatrice sighting.”</p><p>There is something that unfolds on Samwell’s face for just a moment, a mere heartbeat before it passes. Jaskier does not miss it. He recognises it as something akin to anger stifled quickly beneath a pleasant façade. He tenses and moves a little closer to Geralt, casting a look in his direction to see if he noticed it too. Geralt seems to pay him no heed and continues watching Samwell, expression grim.</p><p>“I can take you to him,” Samwell says. He kneels beside his companion for a moment and they exchange a soft murmur of words, before he stands again, and gestures for the two of them to follow.</p><p>“He is a bit of a walk away, are you happy to travel?”</p><p>Geralt shakes his head with a shrug. “Sure. How far do you mean?”</p><p>“We will probably arrive by nightfall.”</p><p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow. The situation is becoming increasingly concerning. Jaskier is glad to note that both of Geralt’s swords are strapped to his back and are ready to be used if needed. It offers him a slight comfort.</p><p>“Let’s go quickly then,” Geralt replies.</p><p>Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Yeah of course,” he mumbles, “Of course it’s fine. Not like anyone thought to ask Jaskier his thoughts on the matter.”</p><p>Geralt knocks a shoulder against him. “What is it?”</p><p>“Let’s just get this done,” Jaskier says with a sigh.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They travel together down the winding dirt road, back towards the forest over the hill from where they came. Samwell maintains mild, polite conversation, but Jaskier notes that Geralt remains tense as they walk. His fingers twitch occasionally, as though desperate to grasp the hilt of his sword for comfort. Samwell seems relatively harmless. He tells them about how he is the last remaining son of a long history of farming generations. His farm produces cattle for meat and dairy. He has not yet wed, but he has his eye on one of the young tavern maidens. He talks about how he also works for the pellar, and how the pellar provides him with aid to cure his cattle of disease. He tells them that the pellar can help with many ailments and has skills like no other he has ever seen.</p><p>“Why did he choose to come here?” Jaskier asks. It is a question of both curiosity and doubtfulness. A man with such skill choosing to make a tiny town his home seems rather unlikely. He could certainly make more money elsewhere.</p><p>Samwell looks at him with a distant smile.</p><p>“Don’t know. Perhaps he knew we needed him.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Samwell leads them through the forest until they come upon a house in a clearing. There is a well-tended garden and an uneven wooden fence. The sun is low on the horizon, a residue of light touching on a flutter of butterflies that dance above the flowers. There is someone out in the yard, another man with a white cloth tied around his neck. He nods towards them as they approach.</p><p>“Is Dygin inside?” Samwell asks him. The man nods again. Samwell turns to his companions.<br/>“Now before we go in, I want to make sure you’re not here to harm him. Like I said, he’s a good man our pellar, and it’s strange to have two new folk interested in visiting him.”</p><p>“We mean him no harm. We just want to talk,” Geralt says.</p><p>Samwell presses his lips together in a thin smile. “Then you would not hesitate to leave your weapons with us while you are here?”</p><p>Although unnoticed by the others, Jaskier sees the way Geralt’s shoulders tense and his posture stiffens momentarily. The fingers that have been itching to grasp the hilt of his sword all day clench into a fist.</p><p>“Of course,” Geralt replies. There is a strained tone to his words, and Jaskier offers a brief touch to his elbow in a way he hopes is at least somewhat reassuring.</p><p>Geralt unstraps the swords from his back and passes them over to Samwell, who in turn passes them to the gardening companion who takes them and disappears somewhere behind the house. Geralt watches him go.</p><p>“You will return them?” Jaskier asks. Samwell smiles.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>He opens the door to the house and ushers them inside. Geralt steps in first, followed closely by Jaskier.</p><p>Inside, it does not seem unusual. There are potted plants lining the wall, herbs dangling from the ceiling. Some empty vials sit beside a bench and another vial of purple liquid has been stoppered and appears ready to go. There is a hallway with a dozen doors leading to various other rooms. Two men sit by a fire in one room, another peers out from behind a wall, curious as to the newcomers, but then disappears again just as quickly.</p><p>Despite himself, Jaskier feels a pleasant inquisitiveness stifle his anxiety.</p><p>“This is…impressive,” he finds himself saying. Samwell’s smile widens at that and he spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the entirety of the house.</p><p>“We have made it a home,” he replies. “We do our best here to help Dygin. He is only one man, and many hands make light work.”</p><p>Jaskier chances a glance at Geralt to see that the witcher does not seem nearly as interested in the details of the hut as Jaskier. In fact, it seems like perhaps his frown lines have only increased upon their entry into the place.</p><p>“Where is Dygin?” he asks, curt.</p><p>“He should be in the library,” Samwell says, clasping his hands together, “He usually retires there at night.”</p><p>“Will we be disturbing him?” Jaskier asks.</p><p>“Oh no,” Samwell shakes his head, “He will be awake for many hours yet. He always reads and researches at this time.” He begins to walk down the hallway. “Come, follow me.”</p><p>There is still a dim light that filters in from outside, but the hallway is relatively well lit due to the lamps that adorn the wooden walls. They are an eccentric collection, mismatched in form and colour, as though someone has fished them from discarded trash heaps and reinvigorated them with life. Upon each door, Jaskier notices that a symbol has been carved into the wood. At first glance, he wonders if it might be an old rune, but as he passes by one particularly bright lamp he realises that it is actually a loose rendition of a feather. He recognises it as the same one he has tied to his lute case - a cockatrice feather.</p><p>He grabs at Geralt’s arm as they walk and nods silently towards the closest door. Geralt follows his gaze and his expression darkens further.</p><p>Samwell stops by the door at the end of the hallway.</p><p>“Dygin will be inside,” he says, though he makes no motion to open the door. Geralt blinks at him and then slowly reaches out to the doorhandle, as though waiting on permission. Samwell just continues to smile, which is particularly disconcerting.</p><p>Geralt takes this as assent, and turns the doorhandle. The door swings open to reveal a clean room with a series of bookshelves lining a wall. They step inside and Geralt wanders closer to the shelves to look around. Jaskier stands by the door, just barely in the room as he watches.</p><p>“Where is he?” Geralt demands, “Where is the pellar?”</p><p>He turns around to look at Samwell. Suddenly, there is a flash of fear that hovers across his expression for a moment and Jaskier feels a spike of confusion. He opens his mouth to ask if anything is wrong, but at that moment, something sharp smacks into the back of his head and his voice falters, muted by pain and shock.</p><p>The last thing he sees is Geralt’s wide eyes, and a muttered curse, before his vision goes black and he passes out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier wakes to the muffled sound of a voice. It swims in and out of his mind, as though just out of reach of grasping fingers. His eyelids feel heavy and he pries them open with sluggish effort. Something is holding his wrist. Fingers, rough and callused, but warm. The voice sounds again, clearer this time. It is repeating his name, a prayer in the darkness.</p><p>Jaskier smiles. Despite his hazy consciousness, there is something pleasant about the concern that this voice has for him. It makes him feel needed, important, like someone cares about him.</p><p>“Jaskier!” the voice calls again. He is shaken and a hand is pressed to his forehead. Jaskier blinks and looks around. Shapes blur and merge, light dims into darkness and then, as though resurfacing from the ocean after too long, it all suddenly comes crashing back into him with the weight of thousand waves.</p><p>He gasps and lurches forward. Arms hold him close, supporting him.</p><p>“Jaskier, are you okay?”</p><p><em>Geralt</em>. The voice has a name.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Jaskier replies, though his tongue feels swollen and his throat thick. He can see Geralt now, leaning over him, holding him upright. His eyebrows pinch with concern.</p><p>Jaskier’s head throbs and he lifts a hand gingerly to touch it. There is a bruise somewhere near the base of his skull.</p><p>“Did you have to rescue me again?” Jaskier asks, squinting at him. Geralt snorts. His gaze falls away from Jaskier, surveying their surroundings.</p><p>“I think we’re both going to have to rescue each other.”</p><p>Jaskier struggles into a seated position, with the aid of Geralt’s hand pressing firmly against his back.</p><p>“Where are we?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head to look around the foreign room.</p><p>“They’ve locked us up,” Geralt replies. “It’s him, Dygin, he’s been collecting cockatrice. Breeding them, letting them go to harvest for parts later. I heard some of his men talking about it.”</p><p>“Dangerous profession,” Jaskier says.</p><p>“Wealthy profession,” Geralt says with a wry smile, “Somehow he has turned it into a profitable business.”</p><p> Jaskier lets his gaze return to Geralt. Now his eyes have further accustomed to the dim light, and the throbbing in his head has receded, he notices that Geralt also appears dishevelled. With a spike of concern, he realises that there is blood on his temple, his pale hair stained dark, matted against his forehead.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks as he gestures towards his forehead. Geralt looks confused for a moment, before recognition returns to him.</p><p>“It’s nothing.” He smiles grimly. “I took a few down with me first.”</p><p>“If you had your swords it would have been different.”</p><p>“And they knew it too.”</p><p>Geralt sits back, legs crossed loosely. His elbows rest against his knees.</p><p>“Always getting into trouble,” he murmurs though there is no real frustration there, just a strange displaced sense of amusement.</p><p>Footsteps sound above them, an echo against the ceiling. Voices rumble, low and distorted.</p><p>“What do they want with us?” Jaskier asks.</p><p>“Not sure. I suppose they will kill us.”</p><p>Jaskier exhales a puff of amusement.</p><p>“You sound very worried,” he says dryly. They exchange a look. Geralt is so calm, a steady hawk that drifts wherever the wind chooses to take it. He adapts instantly. Jaskier feels the way his own stomach twists and turns and dolefully wishes he could be the same.</p><p>With a grunt, Jaskier stands so he can inspect the room more closely. It appears to be some sort of basement, a room buried beneath the house. The walls are rough stone, chilling his fingers as he places a hand against it. The ground is dirt and stone, uneven in placement. There are some discarded barrels pushed to one side, and there is a trapdoor up above that assumedly opens to the house they hide beneath. Only a single lamp glimmers feebly against the darkness. When Jaskier raises a hand before him, his fingers stretch out long in elongated shadow.</p><p>“I didn’t realise the cockatrice business was so profitable,” Jaskier says after a few moments pause. “Or so shady.”</p><p>“It shouldn’t be,” Geralt says. He is standing now too, pressing his fingers against the trapdoor above, running a thumb across the groove near the hinges. “I think it’s not the only thing they are involved in. There’s something else we’re missing.”</p><p>Jaskier nods towards the trapdoor.</p><p>“Is it locked?”</p><p>“Yes. Shouldn’t be difficult to pick, but it’s not exactly an inconspicuous escape.”</p><p>Geralt looks around again and Jaskier watches as his eyes narrow to pinpricks, searching, sensing. He places a hand against the wall and begins to walk, his fingers trailing along the stone as he does so. He pauses near the lamp and presses his hand more forcefully into the wall. He rubs his hand across and some of the dirt falls away. </p><p>“Here,” he says smugly. Jaskier raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“Yes?” he asks.</p><p>Geralt turns to grin at Jaskier, eyes glinting in the darkness. “There’s a secret passage.”</p><p>“Oh good, because every totally safe and not at all treacherous journey starts with the words <em>secret passage</em>.”</p><p>Geralt ignores him. He has found the lock on the door, and his fingers dance across it, deftly moving as he attempts to pick the lock. He must succeed, because soon enough, he lets out a satisfied sigh at the sound of a soft click. The door falls open, hinges groaning in protest. Dark depths span before them.</p><p>Geralt turns to Jaskier and holds out a hand, fingers twitching.</p><p>“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head with a laugh of disbelief and moves towards him. He isn’t sure whether Geralt has extended his hand for Jaskier to take, but Jaskier does so anyway, fingers curling around Geralt’s palm. A flicker of astonishment passes across Geralt’s eyes, and Jaskier realises that he probably hadn’t expected Jaskier to hold his hand and yet, as the astonishment passes, Geralt does not let go.</p><p> </p><p>Then they are stumbling forward together, into the darkness.</p><p> </p><p>After passing the threshold, Geralt’s hand slips from Jaskier’s as he bends down to inspect the floor closely.</p><p>“There’s blood here, something has been dragged,” Geralt murmurs, “They might use this corridor to transport things.”</p><p>Jaskier grimaces. “So, let me get this straight, by “things” you’re implying dead bodies, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Could be.”</p><p>“Charming.”</p><p>They continue through the tunnel. It is dirty and damp, a hint of mold clinging to the ceiling above them. What little light struggles through the area seems to accumulate ahead so they make their way towards it carefully stepping over jagged stone and loose rocks. At the end of the tunnel, a few closer looks reveal a hatch built into the roof. Between the seams of the shoddily hammered planks, light from outside filters through, hesitantly touching the rocks below.</p><p>Geralt pushes up into the hatch. It doesn’t move. He tries again, grunting in effort, but there is no change.</p><p>“Fuck,” he mutters and then slams his hands into it, using the whole force of his body. The latch swings open to reveal the pale light of early morning. There are still a few stars left in the sky, stragglers who seem to be unaware that their shift has ended. Jaskier exhales anxiety, feeling an immense wave of calmness ascend over him upon the revelation of the outside world. There is something about seeing the sun again that grounds him.</p><p>“I didn’t realise so much time had passed,” he says to Geralt.</p><p>“Hm. You were out for a while.”</p><p>He bends his legs and then springs upwards, grasping at the edge above to pull himself up. He clambers out of the hatch and then turns around to help Jaskier. Jaskier clasps his arm and he is pulled up to follow, falling with a soft bump against the grass. They’ve surfaced in the woods, not too far from the pellar’s hut which sits only a few dozen strides away from them. Jaskier can see some movement in one of the windows and is thankful that they are hidden behind a series of flourishing bushes.</p><p>Geralt shuts the hatch and sits back for a moment. His eyes dart around, always wary. Jaskier sits beside him silently inspecting the dirt in his own nails.</p><p>“I think we need to get my swords,” Geralt says after a short while, “We will be better off if I have them.”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs.</p><p>“I don’t know, I’ve seen you take down twenty men in a tavern brawl single-handedly before. No weapons needed.”</p><p>Geralt’s eyes flick to him and he snorts. “I never said I couldn’t.”</p><p>“Well I mean, I suppose they were mostly drunk at the time…”</p><p>“And two of them knocked themselves out against a table.”</p><p>Jaskier meets his gaze with a grin.</p><p>“Weapons it is.”</p><p>They sit together, crouched by the bushes. Geralt shifts and his leg knocks against Jaskier’s.</p><p>“We need to get closer. See if we can find my swords and work out how many men are inside.”</p><p>They move down the slight slope of the grass, laying low as they reach the edge of the hut. Geralt presses himself up against the wall right beside a window, and Jaskier follows suit. He can hear subtle conversation inside, though it is dulled by the wall and the words are impossible to make out. Someone laughs and then there is a louder sound near Geralt’s head – someone is standing right near them. Geralt’s eyes flick to Jaskier, who catches his glance with a quickening of his heart. An arm extends out of the window and a cup is upturned, dark liquid splashing to the grass below.</p><p>A voice sounds from the open window, held in conversation with someone inside.</p><p>“Did Dygin say where he headed?”</p><p>The voice inside is still too far to make out, but Jaskier manages to hear the words ‘kill’ and ‘king’ and frowns. The pellar may be somewhat mad, but regicide had not seemed part of his wheelhouse. The arm retracts through the window, and there is the sound of retreating footsteps. Geralt presses his lips together, a frustrated expression passing over his face.</p><p>“How can we so easily kill a monster, but a pellar is the one that outsmarts us?” Jaskier mutters.</p><p>“I wouldn’t call it outsmarted. Also, since when do you kill monsters?”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs, a twinkle in his eye.</p><p>“Hey, I’m part of this team. Playing supportive music is half the battle.”</p><p>Geralt stares at him. “Jaskier, if you play music while I’m fighting a monster, I will be sure to let the monster have a pre-death snack on your lute before I slay it.</p><p>“Rude.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>Geralt moves to duck beneath the window and then, quick as a flash, peeks up to have a look before he shifts into the shadows again.</p><p>“See anything?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head.</p><p>“Not much. Looks like two men in there. Some have probably left with Dygin, but we can’t follow them until I get my swords back.”</p><p>There is a sudden shout and the sound of feet running across the floor. The conversation inside that follows is muffled, but desperation and shock are evident enough in the cadence of words for both Geralt and Jaskier to realise that their escape has been noticed.</p><p>“Fuck,” Geralt hisses, “I suppose it’s a miracle we lasted this long.”</p><p>He chances another look through the window and gestures to Jaskier quickly.</p><p>“Let’s go in now and have a look around while they’ve gone to the basement. Soon they will come out of the hatch in the woods, but we might have a chance to get in and out if we move quickly.”</p><p>Jaskier nods and they make their move, sneaking around the edge of the hut until they reach the front door. There are no men in the garden outside this morning, which Jaskier is thankful for. He is not a religious type, but he offers a silent prayer to any potential god who might deem it fit to bless two idiots in their quest for swords.</p><p>Geralt opens the door and steps inside. It is quiet in the main area, an empty space imbued with the remnants of halted activity. A half-cut carrot sits on one bench, knife glinting in the morning sun. Geralt quietly slips the knife into his hand, holding it with the blade down. It may not be a steel or silver sword, but it is better than nothing and Jaskier feels slightly more at ease to know that he holds it.</p><p>There is noise coming from below as the shouting continues and Geralt steps silently towards the first door in the hallway. He presses his ear to it for just a moment before he knocks his shoulder against it to open.</p><p>Jaskier can smell the room before he sees it, the scent of blood and decay smashing into him like a spooked horse. He closes his eyes against the scent of it, willing his stomach to settle.</p><p>“Well I guess we know what happens to the cockatrice,” Geralt says in disgust. Jaskier manages to peer around the corner, and what he sees churns his stomach further. Carcasses hang from rusty nails wedged into the roof. The severed head of one cockatrice rests against a wooden bench, eyes glazed and sightless. There are vials and jars set in tiers against one wall, labelled with the varying parts one might salvage from slaying the monster.</p><p>“They must have killed at least a dozen to fill so many jars,” Jaskier says. He plugs his nose with two fingers pinched across his nostrils.</p><p>“The real question,” Geralt says, “Is why do they need so many cockatrice parts, and why do they only care about cockatrice?”</p><p>Jaskier tears away from the room, gulping in the cleaner air from the hallway, before he returns.</p><p>“Strange. All of this is so strange,” Geralt says slowly, shaking his head.</p><p>He opens the next door to a room of beds. They are small pallets, pressed close together, a sparse room for dedicated workers willing to spend the night. There are no swords in there.</p><p>The following door leads to a storage room. It is only a small space, made even smaller still by the barrels stacked against the wall. A weapons rack stands by the barrels, and a sliver of light shines past them to rest on the swords that hang within. Geralt’s eyes light up. He turns to say something to Jaskier just as loud movement sounds from down the hallway – someone is coming.</p><p>With no time to think, Jaskier pushes Geralt inside the storage room and quickly follows, closing the door behind them both. They are plunged into darkness as the door shuts, only a fraction of light passes through the gap at the bottom of the door. The footsteps come closer and the light disappears into shadow, obscured by the figure who walks past. Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment releasing a grateful exhale, thankful that they were able to hide so fast.</p><p>“What’s this?” the figure behind the door murmurs to himself. The shadow shifts as he moves.</p><p>Jaskier realises belatedly, that Geralt must have dropped the knife outside of the door. There is a moment of tension, accompanied solely by the roar of adrenalin and the thud of a heartbeat. Perhaps one of the gods has blessed them today, because as the moment passes, the shadow recedes. </p><p>As the footsteps subside, Jaskier feels his anxiety ebb away, and he refocuses on the current situation. He realises, belatedly, that Geralt has not moved or spoken. He also realises, that because of the small area they find themselves in, Geralt is pressed very close to him. So close in fact, that Jaskier can feel the witcher’s warm breath ghost across his cheek in the dark. The hilt of a sword digs into his back, uncomfortable against his spine but he feels unable to move, the thought that any movement will bring them closer together at the forefront of his mind. His own hands have found their way to Geralt’s wrists, which was at first to pull Geralt inside the room, but now he finds he is hesitant to let go.</p><p>Everything is magnified in the darkness. Every shared breath, each subtle movement. Geralt shifts a little, and a knee slips between Jaskier’s legs. A sharp inhale catches in his throat, followed by a whine that is quickly suppressed between pressed lips. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, an embarrassed heat flushing across his cheeks, grateful for the darkness that hides it. A muffled apology is whispered somewhere near Jaskier’s jaw. A ripple of desire unsettles the fine hairs at the back of his neck.</p><p>The intimacy of the moment is overwhelming. The hands that hold Geralt’s wrists can feel the pulse within them. It flutters rapidly against Jaskier’s fingertips, the only insight that Geralt shares his discomfort. There is something there, trapped with them in the stale storage room. It is a tension that grows between them. It has been slowly forming for a while now, hiding in the darkness as it takes its shape. It is stifling, uncontrollable, incomprehensible.</p><p> “Are they your swords?” Jaskier asks. His voice is hoarse, and he swallows.</p><p>“They are,” Geralt replies. When he speaks, his lips brush against the shell of Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier’s next inhale stutters painfully. He is distinctly aware that it would take only the slightest movement to lean up and press his lips to Geralt’s own.</p><p>“Are you going to get them?” Jaskier asks, after Geralt makes no attempt to move. He hates the way his voice sounds, so breathless and feeble. He is sure Geralt must know.</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt rumbles. The sound sends a tug of warmth shooting towards somewhere near Jaskier’s navel. It settles in his chest pleasantly.</p><p>“I think you might need to move,” Geralt says.</p><p>Jaskier exhales, only to find his breath plucked from his lungs again as a large hand is placed against his waist. He can feel the warmth of the fingers against his skin, even through the fabric of his shirt.</p><p>“Shift around,” Geralt says, “It’s tight in here.”</p><p>Jaskier slides himself away from the weapons rack, though he can’t escape being so close to Geralt, who moves over to take his swords. There are a few quiet sounds as he removes the swords from where they have been placed and holds them in either hand. Jaskier ducks as an elbow knocks into his head, a hushed apology following it.</p><p>“Now what?” Jaskier asks after the movement stills again, assuming that Geralt is now properly armed.</p><p>“We fight,” he says simply.</p><p>Jaskier sighs.</p><p>“Guess so.”</p><p>There is a moment, just a fraction of a second where something brushes against the crown of his head, and, just for a moment, though no longer than that, Jaskier believes that it almost feels like a press of lips.</p><p>The door flies open and Geralt’s warmth leaves him. The light streams in, blinding Jaskier’s sensitive eyes, so accustomed now to the shadows. He squints against the light and follows Geralt out, though not before he takes a weapon of his own from the rack, a rusty sword that appears to be about half a day away from becoming compost. He snags the blade against the doorway and the sword almost flies out of his hand, but he manages to recover his grip and comes to join Geralt, who now paces down the hallway, sword clenched between white-knuckled fingers.</p><p>Geralt manages to club one man in the back of the head before the rest turn around and notice their appearance. There are only four men here, shouting and waving whatever weapons they can find. Geralt attacks them with ease, the men having little skill for battle. Jaskier hangs back, holding his own sword just in case.</p><p>He feels the breath on the back of his neck before he sees the man who comes up behind him. There is a split second of dread that causes his muscles to seize up, a moment of uncertainty, of indecision. The reaction is too slow, and the sword that Jaskier holds is knocked from his hands, clattering to the floor, as arms move up to grab him in a chokehold grasp. Jaskier wheezes, fingers scrabbling against the arm that wraps around his neck. He lets one of his arms fall, and then slams a balled fist backwards into his groin with enough force that he hears the man let out a pained gasp and the grip around his neck eases slightly. It’s enough for Jaskier to jerk his head back and headbutt the man behind him who now stumbles backwards, dazed and in pain.</p><p>Jaskier grabs him but the man is strong, even despite his injury. He lunges forward and Jaskier trips backwards falling to the ground. The man holds one of Jaskiers arms down, pinning the other beneath the weight of a leg. He retracts his hand, aiming for a punch. Jaskier closes his eyes, wincing in anticipation.</p><p>Nothing happens. He opens his eyes.</p><p>The man slumps off to the side, sprawled and lifeless. There is a wound on his head that bleeds slowly over the cobbled floor. Geralt blinks down at him.</p><p>“You okay?”</p><p>“I could have taken him,” Jaskier says, a little stubbornly. Geralt raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“I’m sure.”</p><p>Jaskier grumbles a thanks and Geralt bends down, crouching so that he balances on the balls of his feet. A grin plays across his lips, the kind of feral grin that follows a fight.</p><p>“Do you need a hand?”</p><p>He reaches forward and Jaskier gratefully accepts the help, pulling himself upright.</p><p>“We need to get moving, work out where Dygin has gone,” Geralt says, looking away. Jaskier busies himself with searching the bodies.</p><p>“What did they mean by killing the king? I heard them say it before?” Jaskier asks.</p><p>“Not sure. Let’s look at the other rooms. We might find something.”</p><p>The first two rooms yield no results, but in the third room they try, they find something more significant. A small writing desk, with a dozen or so envelopes and hastily scrawled notes lay scattered on the wooden surface.</p><p>“What is this?” Jaskier breathes, holding one such note to the light. It details cockatrice breeding patterns, and sighted locations of the monsters. Notes scrawled around the margins indicate that someone was painstakingly aware of how to rear cockatrice. He places it down and moves on to another.</p><p>“Look at this,” Geralt says, pointing to the page of an opened book, “It looks like some kind of religious script written by Dygin.” He flicks through a few pages, finger dragging across the parchment as he reads. “It talks about prayer and community…” he pauses, trailing off for a moment. “These are all rituals and medicine using the parts of cockatrice. Seems like our pellar friend has been building himself a little cockatrice cult.”</p><p>Geralt continues to read, frown prominent.</p><p>“This page here, it’s more creased than the others, well read. It talks about resurrection.”</p><p>Jaskier looks at him.</p><p>“What, like bringing back a dead person?”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“Is that…is that actually possible?”</p><p>“Not the way they’re saying it is.”</p><p>Jaskier opens his mouth to ask more questions and then snaps it shut. This probably isn’t the time to get into the ins and outs of necromancy and besides, the thought of what might actually be possible makes him feel slightly queasy if he thinks on it for too long.</p><p>“Do you think the pellar believes it?”</p><p>“I think that he is delusional enough to try.”</p><p>“And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that he makes some good money of it too,” Jaskier replies softly, wandering fingers clasping around a heavy bag of coin. A town desperate for help, and a pellar desperate for fame.</p><p>Jaskier moves closer to Geralt, peering over his shoulder to read the words on the page.</p><p>“The cockatrice… they’re part of the sacrifice?” Jaskier reads slowly.</p><p>“Whatever strange rituals they have going on here,” Geralt says, “They seem to use cockatrice parts for most of them. The resurrection requires the ultimate sacrifice – the blood of five adult cockatrice, and the head of what they call the king.”</p><p>“You’d think they’d choose something a little easier than cockatrice,” Jaskier murmurs with a snide laugh, “Maybe pigs or, I don’t know, blades of grass.”</p><p> “I don’t know of any rituals that involve blades of grass,” Geralt says.</p><p>“How about to summon a cow?”</p><p>Geralt looks at him as Jaskier grins.</p><p>“What? I’m not wrong.”</p><p>Geralt stifles a sigh and turns back to the book.</p><p>“This king,” he says, continuing on task, “Is supposed to be the largest of all the cockatrice. One born on the eve of the full moon. Once it reaches adulthood, the book says it can be uses as a sacrifice to complete the ritual.”</p><p>“What a load of bollocks,” Jaskier says with a snort. “And they’re believing this?”</p><p>“Seems so.”</p><p>“Well, what are we going to do? Are they dangerous?”</p><p>“Our contract was to stop the cockatrice and these men are breeding cockatrice. For each one we kill, more will come. We need to end it. Can’t have an army of cockatrice running around the hills.”</p><p>Jaskier tilts his head sideways. “Well also, Dygin’s men <em>did</em> try to kill us,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “so, there’s that too.”</p><p>Geralt nods.</p><p>“And there’s that.”</p><p>Jaskier rifles through the papers on the desk, shifting aside various nonsensical ramblings and an excessive amount of labelled cockatrice diagrams. His hand stills as he notices a map stashed away beneath the pile and he tugs it free. It is a simple drawing, just a crude outline with various points of interest. One such point of interest snatches his gaze.</p><p>“Look,” he says, waving the map before Geralt. Geralt draws his eyes away from the notebook he holds to Jaskier instead. “I found a map.”</p><p>Geralt leans closer.</p><p>“A crown…” he muses, then snorts derisively. “They’re not very creative.”</p><p>“We know they mentioned killing the king, and we know the king is a cockatrice, then we can assume they’ve gone to this spot here right?”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>Geralt plucks the map from Jaskier’s hand to inspect it further.</p><p>“It’s not too far but, without Roach, it will take us a few hours. They have a head start, but we might have chance to get there before it’s too late.”</p><p>Jaskier nods sagely, pretending that he too, was able to completely understand the map.</p><p>“No time to waste then?” he says, wondering how they manage to always get into these messes. Geralt nods.</p><p>“Let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They are only a few steps from the pellar’s hut when they feel the first drops of rain. Jaskier feels a dash of wetness against his cheek and wipes it away with a brush of his hand, at first believing it to be just a drop of dew tumbling from a leaf above. When the next drop of rain lands on his hand, he looks up, a third drop falling perfectly to catch in his eyelashes. He blinks rapidly, feeling the water clog the lashes.</p><p>“Fuck,” Geralt says with feeling. He exhales a long sigh and squints at the clouds rolling overhead. The tree cover is only partial, but it is enough that much of the light rain is held back from falling on them, however the sky above is dark and grey, a suggestion of what is to come, the feeling of a storm electrifying the air with an ominous tension.</p><p>They pick up their pace, moving quickly through the forest, ignoring the rain that begins to fall increasingly heavier and more constant. They continue until they cannot any longer – until the ground turns to mud beneath their feet, and until Jaskier can’t see more than a few paces ahead despite using a hand to shield his eyes from the rain.</p><p>“We have to stop,” Jaskier says, voice muted by the sound of the rain that thunders through the canopy above. “It’s too difficult in the rain.”</p><p>Geralt does not reply, but he hears. They find shelter in a small enclave up ahead, the rain pelting down around them. Jaskier shivers and draws his arms closer to his chest, the water soaking all through his clothes. Geralt frowns, frustration brewing between his eyebrows.</p><p>“This is going to set us back,” he mutters. He slams a balled fist against the rockface, a slight expulsion of his anger. Jaskier slouches against the stone, rubbing his hands repetitively up and down his own arms to fight off the chill.</p><p>“What should we do?” he asks.</p><p>“We just have to wait until the rain slows. We can’t travel through that on foot,” Geralt says, gesturing to the view before them, misty and obscured by the haze of rain. Jaskier sighs.</p><p>“I wish I had my lute,” he says glumly. His fingers twitch, itching to play. He wishes they were sheltered from the rain inside a cosy cottage, where he could sit and placidly pluck the strings of his instrument. Instead, they are stuck underneath a dripping rock, moss growing above their heads as the rain dampens the edge near their feet and threatens to creep closer.</p><p>Geralt leans beside him, their shoulders touching. He tilts his head down to peer at Jaskier.</p><p>“Are you okay? You’re shaking.”</p><p>“Yes Geralt, I know that,” Jaskier says through his teeth, which he has gritted in an attempt to cease their chattering. “I’m freezing.”</p><p>Geralt leans a little closer so that their sides are completely pressed together, touching all the way from hips to shoulders. A leg brushes his own.</p><p>“Shame all the warm blankets are back at the inn.”</p><p>Jaskier groans. “What I wouldn’t do to just curl up in bed right now!”</p><p>“With a warm drink.”</p><p>“And a roaring fireplace.”</p><p>“The sound of a lute.”</p><p>“Too far,” Geralt says. Jasker grins at him. They stand close. He watches a drop of water travel slowly down Geralt’s forehead before it is trapped against one feathered eyebrow. He knows Geralt is watching him too.</p><p>He tears his gaze away, out to the storm before them. The rain is loud as it thunders overhead, accompanied by the deep roll of thunder held somewhere distant on the horizon.</p><p>“There is something about storms,” Jaskier says, “They feel so charged and tense, so forceful. If I wasn’t soaked to the bone, usually it would make me feel…invigorated.”</p><p>“It’s overwhelming,” Geralt replies, following his gaze with sincere eyes.</p><p>Jaskier nods. He isn’t sure where it comes from, but Jaskier starts to sing. Softly at first, so that his voice barely carries over the steady fall of rain. Though soon, his words gain momentum and volume, spurred by a reckless desire to be heard. It is the song that he has been working on over the recent weeks, a song of their journey – a song about Geralt.</p><p>He can feel Geralt’s gaze on him as he sings and he looks up, their eyes meeting. There is something about the way Geralt watches him. Emotion flickers across the surface of his eyes, intense but indecipherable. It’s unnerving, and Jaskier fumbles for a moment, voice quavering.</p><p>He finds he cannot look away from Geralt. It intensifies every word of the song. It is clear the song is about him, Jaskier makes no attempt to disguise that, but singing it here, so close to him, in their own corner of the world, it is as though the song is a confession. Perhaps it is. He is immersed in the gaze that holds him, trapped in eyes that reflect his own, a silhouette of himself held within them.</p><p>Jaskier finishes the song to where it has been written. Some of the words don’t seem to fit so well together and some of the tune remains vague, but it is the closest he has been to completion. The final notes fade into the rain that has slowed somewhat, as though it is an enraptured audience eager to listen. Geralt continues to look at him, and there is something else there now, something exposed in those golden eyes. There is a gentle blush of pink to the tips of his ears that hide beneath wet strands of ashen hair. His mouth, which has been parted slightly, closes and Jaskier notices the rise and fall of his throat as he swallows.</p><p>Jaskier looks away, embarrassed.</p><p>“It looks like the rain is clearing a bit,” he mutters. He finds it difficult to speak clearly, the words sticking in his throat.</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly. Jaskier looks back at him. Their eyes snap together. That thing between them returns, stifling the air. It is caught in an exchange of breaths, two pairs of mirrored eyes.</p><p>“That was…good,” Geralt says finally, after what feels like days. He blinks, recovering a little. “It was good.”</p><p>Jaskier licks his lips.</p><p>“Ah, are you possibly sick? Did the rain cause a fever?” He presses a hand to Geralt’s forehead. Geralt jerks away from his touch.</p><p> “I’m not sick,” he says.</p><p>“I’ve never heard you say a nice thing about my singing before.”</p><p>Geralt frowns.</p><p>“I’m sure I…”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>A flash of despair crosses Geralt’s face, which is almost as frighteningly uncharacteristic as the praise.</p><p>“Well, anyway. It was good. I liked it.”</p><p>Jaskier swallows a sarcastic retort and nods gratefully. His heart swims with pride as he valiantly fights down an urge to just laugh uproariously. The whole situation is mad.</p><p>“Thank you,” is what he says instead. He smiles and Geralt returns it.</p><p>The rain around them has slowed to a gentle trickle, far more manageable than the outrageous storm of before. The sun has returned, and it peers happily past the leaves above, catching in the drops of water that continue to fall, illuminating them with a brilliant crystalline glow.</p><p>“We can move through this,” Geralt says. He turns to look at Jaskier. “Are you ready?”</p><p> “Sure. Let’s do it.”</p><p>Ducking out from their cover beneath the rock, the rain is just a drizzle against their skin. The ground is still soft under their feet, but they return to their prior quickened pace, weaving through the underbrush. As they continue in their journey, silent companions, the rain eventually trickles to a stop as the sun reigns supreme in the sky once more. The heat from the sun steams in the air, creating intrigue through gentle clouds of mist that rise just above the ground. It is warm enough, that soon, Jaskier feels the wetness of his clothes begin to evaporate until his damp clothes are dry once more, and his shivering ceases.</p><p>“How much further?” Jaskier asks, chancing a look at the sky. The sun is a deep golden hue and the blue of the sky is starting to recede with the promise of fading into a warmer palette.</p><p>“We should be close,” Geralt says, checking the map. “There is a small inland lake up ahead. That’s where it should be.”</p><p>“There,” Jaskier says, pointing ahead. The trees disperse into an empty expanse of land and there is the distant sound of water lapping gently at the shore. There is another sound too, a louder sound. People talking, shouting, and the sound of a roaring monster.</p><p>“Shit,” Geralt says, picking up speed.</p><p>They break into the clearing, slowing to a stop against the pebbled shore. The ground has not dried completely from the rain yet, and damp patches adorn the rocks and stones in a haphazard fashion. A rocky outcrop stands before them, a cliff that curves upwards. Water passes by lazily, content to brush up against the shoreline with a light touch before receding into itself and continuing to wander onwards. It almost seems as though they have come upon a new world, so distinct from the forest they have just traversed.</p><p>Geralt stills beside him.</p><p>“We’re too late,” he says, voice grim. He looks ahead and Jaskier follows his gaze. It’s hard not to see it, the enormous monster standing on the edge of the shore. Its feet dig into the ground, talons entrenched in the dirt and pebbles. It flaps its wings wide and throws its head back with a screech, one large eye swivelling to search out the newcomers who have just arrived.</p><p>Jaskier drags his gaze away momentarily to the other figures on the ground. A few bodies lay there, silent and still. A survivor cowers against the cliff, and when he notices the cockatrice’s attention has shifted, he quickly bolts into the brush, disappearing back into the trees.</p><p>There is only one left now, an older man in a dark robe who stands valiantly alone before the cockatrice. He turns when he notices the cockatrice’s attention has wandered.</p><p>“Dygin, I’m assuming?” Geralt shouts in his direction</p><p>The man frowns at him.</p><p>“Leave this place! This is not your concern witcher” he spits.</p><p>“It actually uh, is our concern,” Jaskier mutters, though nobody hears him.</p><p>“We’re not going,” Geralt says. He unsheathes a sword from his back and holds it tight in one hand, prepared. “That cockatrice is dangerous, you need to leave.”</p><p>“The cockatrice is ours!” Dygin says, waving his hands aggressively. “I knew you would try to stop us witcher, as soon as I heard you were on our trail. You want these cockatrices for yourself!”</p><p>“Just move away from it.”</p><p>“I will not let you have it!” Dygin shouts. His hair whips across his face in the wind, eyes blazing with an insane frenzy. If Jaskier had to pick any man to represent the leader of a wild cockatrice cult, he would easily choose the man standing before them.</p><p>The cockatrice paces behind him, tail flicking to and fro. It eyes him sharply.</p><p>“Get back!” Geralt shouts, a warning.</p><p>Dygin stands his ground, though with no weapons, he seems so small and helpless as the cockatrice behind him nears. It is a large beast, far larger than the one from the cavern. Its beak is curved viciously, glinting in the light of the sun. The eyes, dark and cruel, starved for food.</p><p>It cranes its neck and stares down at Dygin. The pellar pays it no attention, focused on protecting the creature from the witcher.</p><p>There is a sharp movement, a sickening sound, and Jaskier looks away.</p><p>“I suppose you tried to tell him,” he whispers beneath his breath to Geralt who shakes his head with a frustrated sigh.</p><p>When Jaskier turns back, Dygin has gone. The curious pellar who had evaded them for days could not avoid this. How incredibly ironic.</p><p>The cockatrice seems only slightly more satiated, the hunger in its eyes still strong.</p><p>“Watch out,” Geralt says, voice low, “It’s dangerous.”</p><p>If Jaskier wasn’t so terrified, he might have rolled his eyes.</p><p>“I think I can figure that much out,” he says, stepping back a little from Geralt so that he isn’t in the way. He looks around for somewhere safer to hide, but the area is bare unless he plans to head back into the forest. He decides to stand apart by the edge of the lake, hopefully far enough away to avoid combat.</p><p>Geralt begins to move closer to the cockatrice. The creature holds his gaze with its own, leering at him. It hisses a gut-wrenching sound and slams its beak forward, narrowly missing Geralt who manages to dodge out of the way. Geralt turns around and his sword cuts through the air, nicking the side of the cockatrice’s neck. The cockatrice screams and launches sideways towards him, running faster than Jaskier would think was possible for such a large creature.</p><p>Geralt turns and runs before diving out of the way as the cockatrice skids to a halt, confused for a moment as to where its prey vanished. Ducking low with careful steps, Geralt creeps slowly behind it, narrowly missing the lashing tail, before he stabs upwards into its chest. He grins, victorious. It lasts only a moment however, as the cockatrice kicks at him with deadly talons and Geralt is pushed backwards, sleeve torn and blood swelling in deep scratches down his arm.</p><p>Jaskier inhales a sharp breath. He feels helpless, stuck to the side, like a spirit constrained to only observe the realm of mortals. There is an anxiety that weighs on his heart and squeezes the air from his lungs, clawing desperately at his throat. It is the uncertainty of choice, and the consideration that to react may only make the situation worse. </p><p>Geralt looks at his arm with a grimace and returns to his feet. Any other man would have required a moment to catch his breath, but Geralt sems to brush it away with ease.</p><p>He raises his sword again, ducking away from the sweep of a wing and curving it through to slice against the leg of the cockatrice, the same that had kicked him before. The hit lands and the cockatrice recoils angrily, wounded and furious.</p><p>Geralt’s eyes are sharp, as sharp as the talons on the beast that he runs towards, sliding under the chest to bury his sword in the plumage beneath. As the cockatrice teeters off balance, Geralt attempts to slip out from beneath it, retreating a little to get some distance.</p><p>He is not fast enough. The cockatrice rears back and the sharp talons slash forward. Geralt is thrown against the rock with a sickening crunch, his sword skittering off to the side near Jaskier’s feet. The cockatrice roars happily and hones in. It pins Geralt down, claws forming a cage around him, beak looming closer.</p><p>Jaskier screams. Indecision freezes him for a moment, but anxiety fuels him forward.</p><p>He looks at Geralt and then looks at the sword near his feet. He picks it up in an awkward hold, clenching his fist around the hilt as he charges at the monster. He swings the sword and it slices a shallow cut on one leg. Though the damage is minor, it is enough to cause a distraction, and the cockatrice moves around to attack Jaskier instead.</p><p>Jaskier trips over backwards, crawling on his hands away from the creature. In his peripheral vision he sees Geralt roll out from the talons that release their grip and stand, shakily.</p><p>“Jaskier!” he shouts and Jaskier kicks the sword in his direction. It clatters across the ground. Jaskier doesn’t see if it lands its mark, as the cockatrice screeches towards him instead now, tail whipping around as its beak gnashes violently. It rears its head back and Jaskier closes his eyes.</p><p>There’s a loud thump, the sound of a body hitting the ground. Jaskier cracks one eye open.</p><p>Geralt is standing in front of him, sword raised as it pierces through the soft jaw of the creature, impaling the head. He drags the sword out slowly and with nothing to hold it up, the head falls to the ground, limp.</p><p>Jaskier scrambles to his feet, breathing hard. His chest is spattered with the blood of the cockatrice and he fights down a wave of nausea.</p><p>And then there’s Geralt, a silhouette against the setting sun. He stands there, chest heaving, sweaty and bloodied. His sword arm trembles slightly, exertion and adrenalin a tremor that persists even now that the battle has ended.</p><p>Jaskier moves closer. He reaches a hand towards him, touching gently against Geralt’s shoulder. His eyes flicker up.</p><p>“You, ah, you have…” he begins. He brushes a thumb against Geralt’s neck, wiping away a speck of blood. He can feel the pulse beat rapidly against his fingertips. It mirrors his own. Geralt’s eyes are electric, sparking with a ferocious intensity. His breath is hot against Jaskier’s cheek.</p><p>“Theres…there’s blood,” Jaskier continues, rather incoherently. His eyes drop to Geralt’s mouth, which is open, just slightly, to accommodate his quickened breaths. Jaskier swallows. His fingers touch gently against Geralt’s cheek, not unlike a caress. Geralt turns his head just slightly, and his lips brush against Jaskier’s fingertips.</p><p>Their eyes snap together. Geralt smiles.</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh.</em></p><p>Jaskier stutters a shaky exhale. Geralt’s eyes are blazing, desire openly displayed. They are beautiful and honest, and Jaskier wonders distantly how he could have ever thought this could mean anything else.</p><p>“Just fucking kiss me already,” Geralt growls.</p><p>Jaskier obliges with embarrassing desperation, a laugh of disbelief trapped between them.</p><p>Geralt kisses the same way as he does everything else; passionately, furiously, and with reckless abandon. Geralt’s mouth is warm, his lips chapped. There is the taste of blood on his tongue, a remnant of battle. When he draws back for a moment to catch his breath, a muttered curse spills between them as he traces a line over Jaskier’s jaw with a rough thumb.</p><p>“Why did you wait so-”</p><p>“I wasn’t sure-”</p><p>“You could have-”</p><p>“I didn’t-”</p><p>Geralt shushes him and leans forward again, this time slower, more sensual. He exhales through his nose, a puff of warmth against Jaskier’s skin. His mouth opens and he captures Jaskier’s bottom lip between sharp teeth, tugging with a gentle nip. Jaskier moans and clutches him tighter, grasping at his hips, fingers digging into skin. Heat flushes across his cheeks and pools low in his stomach, heart leaping to a wild, disjointed dance.</p><p>“We have to stop,” Jaskier mumbles between kisses. He lets out a shuddering gasp as Geralt ducks his head down and presses a line of fluttering kisses to his collarbone.</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt hums. The sound reverberates against Jaskier’s skin and he feels his knees go weak. He steadies himself with a hand pressed to Geralt’s back.</p><p>“Seriously, Geralt. I am far too aware that we are standing on a graveyard of dead cultists and a cockatrice. Kills the mood a little.”</p><p>Geralt pulls back with a grumble of dissent.</p><p>“Fine,” he says. He reaches a hand up to touch at Jaskier’s cheek, a forlorn and gentle touch. He kisses him once more and steps away. Jaskier fights every instinct he has not to grab him and pull him back for more.</p><p>“Let me take some things first,” Geralt says, “Can’t let the cockatrice go to waste.”</p><p>“How romantic,” Jaskier snorts, standing back as Geralt moves towards the creature and takes what he needs. It is gruesome work, and Jaskier finds himself glancing away, choosing instead to watch the gentle ebb and flow of the river as it follows its path towards the south, lapping at the bank that guides it onwards.</p><p>A hand touches at his shoulder and Jaskier starts.</p><p>“Finished?” he asks, turning to Geralt beside him. Geralt nods. He has emptied the contents of the bag and replaced them with the trophies of the kill.</p><p>Jaskier plucks the map from Geralt’s hands and examines it.</p><p>“What will we do about the other cockatrice?”</p><p>Geralt leans closer to look at the map. He brings a hand up to steady it.</p><p>“There are a few scattered around, they didn’t keep them all together.” He drags a finger across a section of green. “These ones here should be fine, they’re far enough from the towns nearby.” His finger pauses on a symbol near a harbour. “This one might be a problem. We can keep an eye on it.”</p><p>Jaskier hums. There’s something else stirring in him that threatens to dampen the overwhelming joy from just moments before. It’s the realisation that this journey they have taken together is nearly over. It’s the uncertainty of what is yet to come.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Geralt asks.</p><p>Jaskier offers him a tired smile.</p><p>“Just a long day.”</p><p>Geralt pulls away from him and hefts the bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder.</p><p>“We can camp here,” he says, looking up at the steadily darkening sky, “then we can get back to the village tomorrow. If we cut through the forest it won’t take us too long to reach it.”</p><p>Without their packs, they make do with setting up in a patch of soft grass under the cliff edge. Jaskier settles down with his back against the stone, stretching his legs out as he rests his head, chin tilted upwards. After starting a small campfire, Geralt sits beside him, knees bent.</p><p>The stars are out tonight, dazzling and condensed within the sky, a scatter of freckled light. One star in particular shines just a bit more brightly than its friends, sparkling with a mischievous glint. Jaskier lets his head angle towards Geralt. The witcher sits still, drawn into his own thoughts. His skin is creased with dirt and blood, a bandage made of ripped fabric wrapped against his wounded arm. Even in the darkness, his eyes are radiant.</p><p>After a moment, Geralt turns his head to look at Jaskier. Jaskier smiles softly, and he notices the way Geralt returns it, a fleeting twitch of lips.</p><p>“What is it?” Geralt asks after a pause passes between them. It feels so still here, a hiatus amidst the chaos. Everything had been moving so quickly until now, that a moment like this, such a peaceful moment of quiet, seems impossibly slow. Jaskier inhales, revelling in it.</p><p>“I was just wondering what you’ll do, now that you’ve finished the contract.”</p><p>“Get paid hopefully.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs, then sighs.</p><p>“I mean after that.”</p><p>Geralt’s mouth presses into a thin line. Uncertainty exposes itself in the furrow of his brow.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I think I know what I should do, but I’m not sure if I’m ready.”</p><p>“The child?” Jaskier asks. Geralt nods, a minute motion. His eyes fall shut as he exhales a long breath.</p><p>“What you said before, I think you’re right.”</p><p>“You need to go,” Jaskier says, finishing the thought. His hand pressed to the dirt, traces a smooth, indeterminate pattern with a solitary finger. “I don’t know if I believe in fate or destiny, as wonderful as that sort of thing is for songs…” he trails off, wrinkling his nose, “But there is something there more powerful than we can understand.”</p><p> Geralt’s eyes are open again and they hold Jaskier’s own with a steady gaze, unmoving. Jaskier reaches over, covering Geralt’s hand with his. Geralt’s fingers are warm to the touch, and he turns his hand, palms pressed together, fingers entwined.</p><p>“You’ll do what is right,” Jaskier says. Geralt snorts, a derisive sort of sound.</p><p>“You have too much faith in me,” he says. There is a bitter edge to his words that tugs painfully at Jaskier’s heart. It makes him want to hold Geralt close, to kiss the bitterness away and replace it with sweetness, and kindness, and softness.  </p><p>“Perhaps you just need more faith in yourself,” Jaskier says quietly.</p><p>Geralt frowns. His eyes fall to their hands.</p><p>“Maybe,” he replies, after a breath. The moment is held between them. The candor of his words and the emotion exposed between them is heavy and thick. Jaskier understands that it is a privilege to be witnessing it, and he allows himself to hold it there, to stay with it. He wants to say any number of things to boost Geralt’s spirits, to remind him of how strong he is, to dismiss any sort of fragility he holds within him. But Jaskier knows that for once, he needs to hold his tongue. It’s not what Geralt needs from him. What he needs is a steady presence, one who can remain solid and empathic when the soul is revealed. </p><p>They fall asleep like that, in a gentle, thoughtful way. Their hands remain clasped between them, a stable pressure amidst an unstable reality.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. applause</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you so much for sticking with me on this long journey! I hope you enjoy these two absolute soft idiots in love (who I love)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The morning sun rouses him gently with a soft light that brushes hesitantly against shut eyes and warmly caresses his skin. Upon waking, Jaskier allows himself to watch Geralt as he inspects his swords, holding them up to the light of the sun, turning the blade. The light glints, catching against the refined edge and sparking in his vision. It is blinding, electric, like a burst of lighting.</p><p>“Good morning,” Geralt says, noticing the attentive gaze that follows his movements. He tilts his head, offering a small quirk of his eyebrow. An unspoken question perhaps, a curiosity.</p><p>Jaskier grins. Stiffness has settled in his joints, so he raises his arms over his head and arches his back, relishing in the satisfying crack of his bones as the tension is expelled.</p><p>“Morning,” he replies, sleep blurring the edges of his words. He shields his eyes from the sun with his hand so he can look at Geralt properly.</p><p>“It won’t take us long to return,” Geralt says, repeating his words from the day before, “We can cut through the forest here, and it will take us directly to the village.”</p><p>“Shame we left all of our things there,” Jaskier says, “Would have been easier not to go back at all.”</p><p>Geralt sheathes his swords.</p><p>“Sure, but I have a horse waiting for me and a lute waiting for you, and neither of us are going to leave them behind.”</p><p>Jaskier stands and begins to collect their things as Geralt gets to work cooking some small fish he must have caught earlier. Once they are cooked, the pair sit around the smouldering campfire and eat together, quiet amidst the hum of the forest waking up for the day. A bird whoops from a tree and there is the sound of twigs and leaves cracking beneath the footfalls of invisible creatures that lurk somewhere beyond perception.</p><p>Jaskier finds his gaze returns to Geralt again. There is something magnetic there, a pull of instinct that he cannot break from. Even if he could, he wouldn’t want to.</p><p>“Stop it,” Geralt says, as he sucks the last morsel of food from his fingers. The act is honestly quite disgusting, but Jaskier finds he can’t bring himself to care.</p><p>“Stop what?” Jaskier asks innocently.</p><p>“You keep watching me. It’s unnerving.”                                                  </p><p>Jaskier shrugs but does not look away. Geralt sighs, throwing the bones of the fish to the ground, the sand and dirt crusting against the sharp exposed ribs. He gets up and walks over to Jaskier, a hulking silhouette against the sun for a moment, before he bends down, resting on the balls of his feet. The morning light is golden, pooling in his eyes.</p><p>They stare at each other for a moment, a breath paused between them, eyes sharp. Geralt tilts his head, that curiosity returning to the slight furrow in his brow. Then, he leans forward and kisses Jaskier. He pulls away just as fast, leaving Jaskier blinking in surprise.</p><p>“Now will you stop staring at me?” Geralt asks.</p><p>“Don’t count on it,” Jaskier replies, lips tugging into a grin.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As they journey through the forest, making their way back to the village, Jaskier hums a nondescript tune to the steady pace of their footfalls. It is a nonsense thing, a tune that adheres to none of the rules of music. It has no themes or repetition, no consistent key, and seems to flit and dart around something more certain, like a feather that floats on the breeze, just out of reach.</p><p>Geralt remains quiet, but Jaskier notices the smile that plays on his lips when he thinks Jaskier is not looking.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They return to the village just after the sun reaches its peak in the sky. There are no clouds, just pure blue, the memory of rain from the day earlier completely rinsed away. A few of the villagers watch their return with suspicion, still hesitant to accept strangers. Considering that Jaskier and Geralt were recently involved in the death of the beloved pellar, perhaps the suspicion is somewhat deserved.</p><p>The tavern is quiet when they arrive, too early for the rowdy crowd that arrives at dusk. Just a few men sit at tables drinking and engaged in quiet conversation – regulars, or perhaps workers taking a well-earned break. The innkeep is polishing some glasses and nods at the duo as they enter. Geralt walks over to him, jaw set in the way it does when he is determined to push through a difficult task.</p><p>“Afternoon,” he says to the man. The man nods again. A flicker of concern passes over his eyes as he takes in the dishevelment of the pair before him. Their bloodied and torn clothes don’t do them any favours.</p><p>“What happened to you lot? Thought you were just on a trip to see the Pellar?”</p><p>Ah, Jaskier thinks, word travels fast. They never told him that when they left. Trust a small village to gossip about the newcomers.</p><p>“We met him,” Geralt says.</p><p>“Lovely fellow Dygin,” Jaskier interjects in a drawl, “Unfortunately, there was an incident that involved a wild cockatrice and ah, we could not save him in time.” He watches for the recognition to catch in the innkeep’s eyes. When it does, the man exhales slowly.</p><p>“Dygin’s dead?”</p><p>“Afraid so,” Jaskier says solemnly, “And a few of the men who were loyal to him were also killed in the skirmish.”</p><p>“The town will be devastated.”</p><p>Jaskier, ever the actor, puts a hand to his heart and nods sadly.</p><p>“I understand. It’s a hard time for us all.”</p><p>The innkeep nods.</p><p>“Well, thanks for letting me know. I’ll pass the word around. Do you know which other folk died?”</p><p>“Didn’t get their names,” Geralt says. He unfurls the map he has and directs the innkeep to look at it. “Do you know where this is? There are some there.”</p><p>“I know the place. We’ll have a group collect the bodies.”</p><p>He thanks them again with a slight incline of his head, and returns to work, no further questions asked.</p><p>Jaskier and Geralt take their leave and make their way up the stairs to their assigned room. Jaskier is immensely grateful when the door to the room opens and all their items still happen to be there, including of course, his beloved instrument. That dash of solace found when returning to familiar items settles in a pleasant warmth somewhere near his heart. For a moment, he considers picking it up to play, but exhaustion crushes the desire, and instead he settles for a loving caress of fingers against the wood before he collapses into the bed with a sigh.</p><p>His entire weight sinks down into the stiff mattress, melting into the bed beneath him. Everything aches and there is a dull pain that worms its way into his skull. He lets his eyes fall shut, just for a moment, inhaling the contentment of a brief pause.</p><p>When he opens his eyes again, he catches Geralt’s gaze on him. It lingers just a moment too long and then darts away.</p><p>Geralt looks the same way Jaskier feels – utterly wrecked. His shirt is stained, one of the sleeves torn haphazardly so that rivulets of thread trail down his arm like limp feathers. There is a cut across his lip that appears to have swollen, and blood crusts in his hair.</p><p>Jaskier waves a hand lazily towards him.</p><p>“You’ve got blood in your hair,” he says. Geralt touches his head, wincing as he grazes a wound near his scalp. It must have happened when he was thrown against the rock during the fight with the cockatrice.</p><p>“I think I have blood everywhere,” Geralt replies, before looking down at his clothes and then his hands, palms splayed before him as he observes the lines that span the skin.</p><p>With a great deal of effort, Jaskier sits up.</p><p>“Let me get a wash basin for us, clean up a bit. Then rest.” He gets to his feet, unsteady with fatigue, and stumbles away to discuss it with the innkeep.</p><p>When he returns, he is weighed down by a small basin filled with warm water that he clutches between his arms. He shuts the door behind him and the water sloshes dangerously close to the side, threatening to spill over its containment. He places it on a table in the room and gestures to Geralt to shift his chair over.</p><p>Geralt obliges, moving closer. He sits with his back to the basin, legs splayed before him. Jaskier reaches up to touch at his scalp. Their fingers overlap for a moment, as Geralt’s hand follows the movement.</p><p>“Here, let me,” Jaskier says. He moves behind Geralt and Geralt leans into his touch, tilting his head backwards towards the basin as his eyes flutter shut. Jaskier’s hands cradle Geralt’s head which is tipped back to expose his mouth and neck. Jaskier swallows. There is something about it that feels so incredibly intimate.</p><p>“The blood has crusted a little,” he says softly, “I’ll try not to tug too much.” Geralt grunts. One eye peeks open, curious.</p><p>“Hey, keep them shut,” Jaskier chides. The eye closes dutifully, and a smile curves the lips. Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, loosening the strands between them, aided by the water that slips through his hands. He slowly works through sections with his fingers, rubbing soothing circles into Geralt’s temples. When he tugs a little too hard on a particularly stubborn stain, Geralt lets out a soft sound of surprise.</p><p>The sound travels straight to Jaskier’s groin and he freezes, allowing a moment to collect himself. He exhales a short breath and tugs again. Geralt makes another sound, deeper this time. Jaskier thinks he can see the faintest flush creep up the pale exposed neck before him. He files the information to the back of his mind for future use.</p><p>Jaskier continues to work the strands of hair through his fingers. The blood has dried but comes off relatively easily against the water and a small amount of pressure. He rubs a thumb into Geralt’s scalp to remove some blood that hides deeper, watching it slip away satisfyingly. Soon enough, the hair is clean again.</p><p>“Finished,” Jaskier says, dragging his hands away.</p><p>Geralt’s eyes flicker open. Some water has splashed on his face and settles still on his chin. Jaskier reaches over and brushes it away gently. His hand cups Geralt’s cheek and Geralt visibly swallows. Their eyes meet. Jaskier realises how close they are, their faces a mirror image flipped on its axis, Jaskier leaning over Geralt from behind, Geralt underneath looking up at him. Jaskier’s other hand continues to hold Geralt’s head in his palm. It would take only a heartbeat to lean closer and touch those lips with his own.</p><p>Then he remembers that this is something he can do now, and so he closes the distance between them.</p><p>Geralt smiles against his mouth and Jaskier relishes in the knowledge that this pleases Geralt as much as himself. He delights in the way that it makes Geralt push closer to him, the way rough fingers touch gently at a smooth cheek, a thumb pressed to his jaw. Geralt’s mouth is soft and sweet, nothing at all like the man it belongs to.</p><p>Geralt pulls away after a moment, forehead knocking somewhat painfully against Jaskier’s chin.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says, sheepish, “My neck is hurting.”</p><p>Jaskier snorts and shakes his head, wiping up some of the excess water that has spilled over the basin. Geralt sits up straight in the chair, turning to face him. A hand reaches out to still his movements.</p><p>“Wait,” Geralt says, “Let me do it properly.”</p><p>He holds Jaskier’s head between his hands and kisses him again, slowly, deeply, more sure this time. It makes Jaskier gasp and surge forward, more water spilling from the basin as he knocks against it.</p><p>Geralt laughs into the kiss, a deep rumble that slips from his throat and is captured between their lips.</p><p>“Stop,” Geralt says, though he barely protests, “You’re getting water everywhere.”</p><p>“I could literally not care less,” Jaskier says when he pulls away for a moment to breathe. He sounds so desperate, and it should probably humiliate him, yet he feels he cannot bring himself to care, the same way he ignores the water that now seeps into his clothes from the basin pressed between them.</p><p>Geralt grunts and tugs him closer, but the movement is enough to knock the basin off its position and the water tumbles to the floor. Jaskier lets out a shout as it hits the ground and attempts a desperate grab at it, saving a little less than half of the water as the rest dampens the floorboards beneath them. He stands there, frozen in place, water soaking into his clothes.</p><p>Geralt looks at him, surprise lasting only for a pause, before he laughs. It is loud and sudden, a shock of noise at first, but then it builds on itself, tripping and tumbling and soaring. Geralt laughs and laughs, tears collecting in the recesses of his eyes, hand clutching at his stomach. His hair is dripping and damp, plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. It is almost childlike the way it entangles him completely. The sound is so pure and vibrant, so <em>honest</em>. It enraptures Jaskier.</p><p>“Shut up,” Jaskier whines, though acquiesces when Geralt takes him by the hand and pulls him into a kiss, the laughter muted between the press of eager lips, basin abandoned by the side.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They decide to leave the village the next day: Geralt, keen to accept his contract payment, and Jaskier eager to leave the strange, disconcerting town. Geralt also makes the excellent point that once bodies are found in the pellar’s hut, it may be quite difficult to convince the villagers that it was all the work of a cockatrice, and it is likely that someone will put two and two together and realised that perhaps Jaskier and Geralt played more of a crucial role in their demise than the two let on.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you suppose we won’t be allowed back?” Jaskier says, stepping over a mossy stone. The village is a mere speck behind them on the horizon, hidden behind crowding trees and the darkness of the forest. Despite having travelled what feels like every inch of the country over the last few weeks, Jaskier still finds that none of their path looks familiar in the slightest. He is glad to have Geralt’s sure sense of direction.</p><p>“I can’t imagine they’d be happy to see us again,” Geralt says after a moment of pause, gently scratching Roach behind her ears. Roach shakes her mane playfully and nudges her head upwards into the touch.</p><p>“Shame,” Jaskier sighs.</p><p>“Did you want to go back?” Geralt asks, an eyebrow raised incredulously.</p><p>Jaskier shrugs. “Well no, not really. In fact, I think I would rather kiss a cockatrice. But, you know, it’s always nice to have the option.”</p><p>Geralt shakes his head, and although Jaskier is not looking in his direction, he is sure that Geralt is rolling his eyes.</p><p>“Ridiculous,” Geralt mutters.</p><p>“Guess it’s fine,” Jaskier continues, kicking his feet up as he walks. His lute, strapped to his back, bounces with the movement. “There’s plenty of other places to explore, and hopefully the next one will have one hundred percent less cockatrice cults.”</p><p>“We can only hope,” Geralt says.</p><p>They walk in silence for a short while, Roach’s hooves making steady progress across the ground as Jaskier watches a bird take flight overhead, spiralling over the trees for a moment, before it dives downwards again, lost somewhere in the brush. It’s a pleasant day, warm but not too hot. Everything seems so bright, the green of the trees luminous against the sun, the sky a brilliant azure blue.</p><p>“Can you believe that not that long ago we were stuck in a small hut in the middle of the woods because of my leg?” Jaskier muses to the cloudless sky, “It feels like centuries ago.”</p><p>Geralt, a look of guilt passing over his face, turns to Jaskier.</p><p>“Ah, actually, how is your leg? I should have been checking.”</p><p>Jaskier hums.</p><p>“Yes, you probably should have. You’re a terrible friend you know.”</p><p>He winks at Geralt who scowls at him.</p><p>“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Jaskier says, waving his concern away with a flick of his wrist, “I’ve been taking care of myself. It aches a little when it gets cold, but other than that, it’s on track to healing perfectly.”</p><p>“Good,” Geralt says, “That’s good.”</p><p>He pulls back on Roach’s reigns a little, slowing her to a gentle pace. For once, with nowhere they need to desperately go, they can travel leisurely. Jaskier ducks his head, hiding a smile at the notion.</p><p>“You’re right though,” Geralt says, “Feels like a long time ago.” He grins, “I can’t believe I had to share a bed with you for so many nights.”</p><p>“Why? Because I’m so dashingly handsome you could barely keep your hands off me?”</p><p>Geralt snorts.</p><p>“No, because your feet are so cold, I can’t believe I didn’t murder you in your sleep.”</p><p>Jaskier tilts his head, observing Geralt. A knowing smile plays on his lips.</p><p>“It was a little bit of the other one too though, wasn’t it?” he says.</p><p>Geralt looks away, and Jaskier laughs, clapping a hand to his chest.</p><p>“I knew it! Poor sexually frustrated Geralt.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Geralt growls, though there’s no bite to it, “As if you’re one to talk.”</p><p>“I would never deny it,” Jaskier says with a careless shrug, “I’m only human, and you’re uh, well I mean, <em>look at you</em>.” He waves his hands around wildly for emphasis.</p><p>Geralt, to Jaskier’s immense surprise, flushes a little, just the barest hint of pink against his cheeks.</p><p>“Shut up,” Geralt says again.</p><p>Jaskier whistles. “Who are you and what have you done with Geralt? I know for certain you never used to embarrass this easy.”</p><p>“I’m not embarrassed, it’s just…I don’t know,” he trails off, a thumb rubbing subconsciously against the reigns he holds in his grip. “It’s strange.”</p><p>Jaskier looks at him, deadpan.</p><p>“Okay if you have another strange feeling about something, we have <em>got</em> to go and get that checked out because last time you had a strange feeling it turned out to be a cockatrice cult.”</p><p>Geralt’s lips twitch into a slight smile.</p><p>“No, it’s not that kind of strange feeling. It’s just this…us.”</p><p>There is a sudden spike of fear that hurtles, full speed, into Jaskier’s chest, winding him. There is a self-consciousness that lurks inside him, whispering his insecurities, and it feels justified then, for a moment. He blinks and forces himself to breathe steadily, adopting a convincing air of what he hopes is a completely calm and normal person.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Jaskier asks nonchalantly to Roach’s ass.</p><p>“I’ve never done this before.”</p><p>Jaskier casts a strange look in Geralt’s direction.</p><p>“Geralt, I’d have to be both blind and deaf to not notice how many women you have had during our time together. They practically throw themselves at you,” he says, then, considers his words, “not like I’m one to talk I suppose.”</p><p>“No, not <em>that</em>. This,” Geralt says again, gesturing between the two of them. At Jaskier’s concerned and slightly bewildered expression, Geralt sighs. “You know I can’t express myself well.”</p><p>“You’ve been doing an okay job of it lately actually,” Jaskier says sincerely with a slip of a smile.</p><p>“I mean the way it happened,” Geralt explains, “Friends first. I’m not used to that.” He frowns, a defensive grimace that drags the corners of his mouth downwards. The visible uncertainty on his expression is a rare sight.</p><p>“It’s not that different,” Jaskier replies. He reaches a hand towards Geralt, hesitant, and then lets it fall to his side instead. His fingers curl into a fist as the unease he had felt is pushed away. It does not entirely disappear however, lying in wait somewhere dark, its existence undisclosed.</p><p>Geralt turns to him, eyes serious. Jaskier wonders briefly if he can see his insecurities – he often feels like he is unravelled completely before Geralt, all his vulnerabilities exposed. Geralt does not comment on it, so Jaskier is left to wonder. Instead, Geralt offers a distant smile, expression transforming into something more contemplative.</p><p> “I suppose it isn’t that different,” he says slowly, “I think that’s what makes it so strange.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They find a clearing to set up camp when the sun begins to sink lower on the horizon. Roach chews lazily on some grass as the light from the fire flickers across her mane, casting long shadows that span from her legs. The remains of a rabbit roasts on a spit by the fire, blackened and charred by the flames that continue to lick upwards.</p><p>Satiated and content from their meal, Jaskier and Geralt move around the clearing engaged in a sparring match. They move more sluggishly than usual, the meal of rabbit sitting pleasantly in their stomachs.</p><p>Jaskier knows that Geralt is deliberately allowing him to get a few hits in, but Jaskier can occasionally read his movement now. At Geralt’s tuition, he has a basic understanding of how the body prepares to move, and how to predict where to go next. Despite his mind sharpening, his skills are still lacking, and he finds that he is often too slow to avoid even the movements he predicts are coming.</p><p>“You have to use your legs for that,” Geralt says, as Jaskier fails to move out of the way of a kick to the shin (his non injured leg, thankfully).  “Tense your muscles earlier, draw them back, ready them like a spring. You’re leaving it too late.”</p><p>Jaskier wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead and sighs.</p><p>“Some of us haven’t been trained to expect danger at every turn,” he says panting, wincing as Geralt lands another blow, this time across his shoulder. “And besides, I’m the one with the hurt leg so you can’t expect me to be a nimble butterfly.”</p><p>“Excuses! You just told me your leg was almost healed,” Geralt says with a grin, and then pauses, “Are butterflies nimble?”</p><p>“Well sure I mean I- what’s that!” Jaskier stops suddenly, eyes blowing wide to look past Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt freezes, turning quickly to address the danger.</p><p>Jaskier acts fast, launching himself at Geralt with as much strength as he can, knocking the witcher to the dirt beneath them.</p><p>“Might not move quickly, but I guess my acting skills pay off,” Jaskier says, trilling a laugh at the shocked look on Geralt’s face. He leans closer, tilting his head. “I was getting sick of you winning.”</p><p>Geralt, now recovered, grins. There is a sort of pride to it, and Jaskier feels himself smile in response. Geralt is flushed from exertion, his cheeks a pale red. He breathes fast, chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. Jaskier holds him down with the weight of his body, legs pressed on either side of his hips, hands clamping down on his shoulders.</p><p>“Are you going to get off me?” Geralt asks. His voice is low, a rumble in his throat. There is something else that passes over his expression now – arousal. Jaskier’s smile widens.</p><p>“Not sure,” he replies, leaning closer, “I quite like you like this.” He shifts his hips slightly, just a little, but it is enough to feel the man beneath him tense. He does it again, slower, deeper, indulging in the increase of friction. Warmth pools low inside him as Geralt’s hips jerk.</p><p>“I hate you,” Geralt says, with feeling.</p><p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“Certainly doesn’t feel like it,” he replies.</p><p>Geralt growls and a hand snakes upwards, fitting itself around the nape of Jaskier’s neck to drag him down, closing the remaining distance between them. Jaskier kisses him, hot and hard. Teeth nip, mouths clash, tongues meet – it is messy and furious and perfect.</p><p>A knee presses up between Jaskier’s legs and Jaskier exhales a shaky moan. Geralt uses the distraction to push Jaskier over, rolling on top of him to switch their positions. Jaskier looks up at him, at the wildness of his eyes, the untamed hair, the scars on his face and distantly wonders how he got so lucky.</p><p>Geralt kisses him again, and again, and more times still. He kisses Jaskier’s throat and his neck, sinking his teeth into the junction just above his collarbone. Jaskier cries and thrashes upwards. He feels heat crawl across the entire expanse of his skin. He is on fire, he is electric, lighting coursing through his veins. Geralt’s hand comes between his legs and slips past his clothes. His hand is rough, and Jaskier’s hips stutter against the stroking fingers. They move together, desperate and hungry, the flames of the fire throwing hot light across flushed skin.</p><p>With a shudder, the moment passes and the air returns to stillness. Heat continues to persist, trapped between the embracing bodies, captured in an exchange of heavy breaths.</p><p>It’s not new to Jaskier, this feeling of lust and desperation. What terrifies him is that there is something deeper, lurking in the shadowy recesses of his heart. The intensity of Geralt’s eyes have melted into pure unfiltered adoration that illuminates them brilliantly. Soft shadows caress his cheekbones and brush across the concavity beneath bushy brows. This is unchartered territory, and the fact that he can see his own infatuation mirrored in the eyes before him, stuns him even further.</p><p>Jaskier looks at Geralt. His eyes travel the length of his nose, the way it dips and curves crookedly. He looks at the curl of his lips, the hint of canines peeking past the reddened mouth. He is mesmerised by the way the light of the fire highlights his hair in a halo of amber and gold. He is incandescent.           </p><p>“You’re beautiful,” Jaskier murmurs. He doesn’t mean to say the words aloud, and embarrassment floods his cheeks.</p><p>“I’ve heard a lot of things about me,” Geralt says, “But I’ve never heard that one before.”</p><p>“It’s true though,” Jaskier says, somewhat stubbornly. Geralt’s eyes become thoughtful as he watches Jaskier. He raises a hand to Jaskier’s cheek, a curled finger underlining his jaw. “I don’t know what I expected but, it wasn’t this.”</p><p>“Since when are you so gentle?” Jaskier teases.</p><p>“Since when are you so nice?’ Geralt asks.</p><p>He kisses Geralt again for good measure and then yawns, stretching languidly. He knows Geralt watches him, and he revels in the discerning gaze.</p><p>“It’s time for bedrolls and rest,” he says, nudging Geralt with a foot. Jaskier stumbles to his feet, and despite the exhaustion and stiffness that plagues his bones, somehow manages to find his way to where they have unrolled their blankets. The bedrolls do not provide nearly as much comfort as a nice proper bed would allow, but it is enough, and it is certainly better than nothing.</p><p>Geralt follows Jaskier, slipping into a relaxed position beside him. Jaskier turns around on his side, arms tucked against his chest, legs bent. Geralt mirrors him. Their eyes meet.</p><p>“What is it?” Geralt asks, “Are you cold?”</p><p>“If I said yes would you hold me?”</p><p>“Fuck off,” Geralt snorts, rolling his eyes.</p><p>“That’s more like it,” Jaskier says with a grin.</p><p>He turns onto his back, eyes catching the light of the stars. The moon is hidden, tucked neatly beyond the darkness. It is betrayed by a sliver of silver that shines around the rim of a cloud, a teasing light. The scent of fire is heady in the air, as is the sweet, sticky smell of wildflowers. An owl sings out in the distance and the dying embers of the fire crackle and spit.</p><p>There are some thoughts that rest on the edge of his mind. Thoughts that want to pry further and seek answers. Thoughts of Geralt, thoughts of the child, thoughts of meaning and love, thoughts of the future. There is another thought that appears unbidden, a suspicion, an insecurity – <em>Yennefer</em>. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills them away. They vanish, a dandelion discarded in the wind, but the whispers remain, a phantom just out of sight beyond the margins of his dreams. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The following day they traverse the base of the mountain, steep rock extending far above their heads. Jaskier’s sleep the previous night was restless, and he now travels with an added sense of weariness weighing his limbs. The phantom that hovers on the edge of his mind returns, whispering and cruel. Jaskier finds it more difficult to dismiss. It is accompanied now by a guilt that plagues him, that reprimands him for feeling disappointed and confused in the first place. It tells him he should feel grateful, and that his questioning confirms that he is underserving.</p><p>Geralt asks him once if he is okay, riding past the haze of a waterfall that cascades from somewhere high above them. Jaskier brushes his concern away, but a strange look settles on Geralt’s face and although he does not question Jaskier further, his eyebrows pinch and his mouth remains in a thin line as they continue their journey. </p><p>When Geralt pauses to collect some wild plants, Jaskier feels the pressure squirm, a niggling fear that clouds his thoughts and crushes his heart. It builds, until it seems to burst from him suddenly, exuding from his skin, radiating from his eyes, leaking from his mouth.</p><p>Geralt is plucking the plants by their roots, dirt creasing the lines of his palm. One of the plants has a flower, and as Geralt pulls it from the ground, the flower tears off the stem and falls, lifeless to his feet.</p><p>Jaskier licks his lips, exhaling through his nose, and it all comes out in a rush.</p><p>“Am I just a replacement?” he asks.</p><p>He does not think the words, they just fall, tumbling from his mouth in an anxious mess before he even has time to consider them. Geralt looks towards him, a small bunch of plants clenched between his fingers.</p><p>“What?’</p><p>Jaskier blinks, regretting the words that follow as soon as they leave his lips.</p><p>“You loved her,” he says, “Maybe still do.”</p><p>He has tried so hard not to think of it. It should not bother him, truly. He shouldn’t care, because this is what he’s wanted for a while now and having it in any form should be enough. The words are ripped from his throat regardless.</p><p>The wild plants fall from Geralt’s fingers. Shock crosses his face, then frustration. He wrestles with it for a moment before he managed to speak through clenched teeth.</p><p>“Jaskier, don’t-”</p><p>“Am I wrong? You can’t just pretend Yennefer never existed.”</p><p>The look that passes across Geralt’s face is thunderous.</p><p>“It’s not your concern,” he growls.</p><p>Jaskier trembles a little but does not back down. He tilts his chin up, defiant, stubborn.</p><p>“Actually, it is. I’m not just here as a temporary fuck until you can get her back.”</p><p>“Why does it matter?” Geralt says, whirling around towards him, “Why does it matter if you are? It doesn’t have to mean anything.”</p><p>Jaskier feels heat flush across his skin, embarrassment mingled with rage.</p><p>“Fuck you,” he says, voice thick and low.</p><p>He turns and begins to walk away. He had hoped, foolishly maybe, that what they had together was something more than just a way to fill the void created after Yennefer left. He hadn’t expected declarations of love or choirs of angels or anything so tragically romantic, but he had expected respect. He had expected a friend.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Geralt calls after him.</p><p>“Away from you,” Jaskier replies, picking up speed.</p><p>He winds his way through the trees, glaring at the grass as it is trampled beneath his feet. A bush pricks him as he walks past and he hisses through his teeth, swatting a hand to the cut on his arm. His heart beats fast, an angry rhythm. His judgement, clouded by a barrage of furious thoughts, manages to fail at interpreting the slope of the hill he traverses, and, with a small misstep, he tumbles to the ground, sliding down the grass.</p><p>There is a muffled curse behind him and the pounding of hooves.</p><p>Jaskier winces, brushing off the dirt from his pant leg, as a callused hand reaches down into his view.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Geralt asks. Jaskier turns away, ignoring him, remaining on the ground.</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says. His voice is quieter now, remorse dimming the edge of his words. “Please look at me.”</p><p>Jaskier does so, eyes blazing furiously. Geralt blanches.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, “That was uncalled for.”</p><p>Jaskier remains silent.</p><p>“I guess this is something we have to talk about,” Geralt says.</p><p>“Guess so.”</p><p>He hesitates, and then drops to the ground beside Jaskier, legs bent, elbows resting against knees. They sit in silence for a few moments, each ruminating on their own thoughts.</p><p>“I don’t know what to say,” Geralt says after a while, squinting against the sun. “There is something about her, I can’t explain it.” He expels a frustrated sound, balling his fist against the ground. “I don’t have words for it, but it’s like nothing I’ve known before.”</p><p>Jaskier feels his heart splutter, a pathetic sort of movement that solidifies his anger. He drops his gaze but a hand against his knee causes him to look up again.</p><p>“But I also don’t have the words for this,” Geralt says, “This is also like nothing else. And none of what this is, has anything to do with her.”</p><p>Jaskier looks into his eyes, searching for the truth, and what he finds is an earnest vulnerability that he cannot possibly deny. Geralt does not glance away, he does not avoid the confrontation. He remains resolute and determined to show the honesty of his words. Jaskier feels the anger ebb away and he sighs, wistful.</p><p>“Okay,” Jaskier says, “okay.”</p><p>He leans forward, tilting his chin to press his mouth against Geralt’s. Geralt kisses him softly and then pulls back, just a fraction.</p><p>“Does that help?” Geralt asks, a breath against his lips.</p><p>“Mmm, it would help more if you told me how impeccably handsome I am,” Jaskier teases.</p><p>“Wouldn’t want you to get too arrogant,” Geralt replies with a small laugh exhaled in a puff of air. Jaskier ducks his head to hide his smile.</p><p>“Now can we leave?” Geralt asks, “As much as I enjoy sitting in a grassy field with you, I am also quite inclined towards receiving the money I’m owed.” He stands, moving towards Roach. Jaskier follows suit.</p><p>“Geralt” Jaskier says suddenly, a hand catching his sleeve. Geralt looks at him in question.</p><p>“Do you think we need to work out what this is?” he asks. He doesn’t explain any further, but he is sure Geralt knows what he means. He is speaking about the tension they have now released, that sits exposed, laid bare before them. He means what they have between them. It had no name before and continues to elude definition.</p><p>“No,” Geralt says, simple and sure, “Do you want this?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Then I think that’s all that matters for now.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They continue in their journey, passing by a quiet river that trickles beneath the mountain and disappears into a dark cavern. Roach spooks at one point as a wolf howls, a little too close for comfort, but Geralt calms her with a few gently whispered words and a palm pressed against her neck. They move across a field of flowers, and Jaskier picks a handful that he then throws at Geralt at an opportune moment, laughing at the sight of his stern face showered with soft petals. He saves one, a pale pink flower tipped with white and flushed with red steeping from its centre. This flower he tucks behind his ear and leaves it there until Roach tries a few too many times to steal it from him. The flower is then moved to his lute and joins the cockatrice feather that continues to dance against the polished wood.</p><p>After a while, the village they seek crests in the distance and the forest path they tread transforms into something more steadfast. Ahead, a series of chimneys emit curls of smoke that drift upwards before they disappear somewhere amongst the clouds. The cows in the fields that line the road look up as they pass, chewing the grass thoughtfully as their ears flick away the flies that seek to gather there.</p><p>The village seems unchanged, as small towns seem to do. Despite the perceived threat of a monster on their border, the townsfolk continue their daily routines. A few of them glance up as the pair walk past, a dash of recognition in their features aligned with a touch of hope. Perhaps they know of the witcher who was sent to rid the town of its beast.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ma Shep is gardening when they find her. Her gnarled fingers pluck the weeds deftly, tossing them into a basket as she inspects her vegetables. At their approach, she glances up at them, squinting in the sun for a moment before she stands, brushing her hands on a dirty apron tied around her waist. Her expression is hard, firm lines fixed on her face, but her eyes seek answers. There is a hopeful vulnerability present there.</p><p>“So?” she asks.</p><p>“It’s done,” Geralt replies, accompanied by a nod. The way he stands exudes confidence. His gaze is stern and severe, eyebrows drawn low – he is an imposing figure. Jaskier realises how intimidating he must seem to strangers.</p><p>Ma Shep looks at him, and despite her scowling façade, Jaskier can see she is somewhat impressed.</p><p>“Did you find Symko?”</p><p>Geralt drops his head respectfully.</p><p>“He did not make it. A cockatrice was responsible, but it has been dealt with.”</p><p>A quiver of lips suppresses grief for a moment as Ma Shep nods, sad but satisfied. There is after all, a terrible, but necessary closure provided by the assurance of death. Jaskier feels it would be far more tragic to be held in limbo, to remain in the unknown.</p><p>“Must have been hard,” she says, voice trembling, “You were gone so long. You look like you have been through a lot.” Her eyes are discerning as they swivel between Geralt, to Jaskier. Jaskier looks away, and although he knows there is nothing that she could decipher, he feels exposed beneath the intense gaze.</p><p>“Speak to Hollis. He will have the reward for you,” Ma Shep says.</p><p>Grealt goes to move away but then pauses, sifts through his bag for a moment and produces a small handful of coins. He deposits them into her uncertain palm.</p><p>“For your loss,” he says, a grim look settled between the pinch of his brows.</p><p>Ma Shep seems as though she is about to reject the offering, but then the scowl on her face melts into something softer, and there is a shine to her eyes.</p><p>“Thank you witcher,” she says, clearly touched.</p><p>Geralt nods and turns to leave. Jaskier, slightly blindsided by the whole ordeal, blinks and follows. He falls into step beside Geralt, glancing up at the other man with a curious expression held in the quirk of an eyebrow and the tilt of his lips.</p><p>“That was nice of you,” he says jovially. Geralt grunts.</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“No, really Geralt” Jaskier says, brushing light fingertips to the corner of Geralt’s elbow for a moment, “That was…very considerate.”</p><p>Geralt shrugs.</p><p>“She has lost some of her income on the farm now that she has lost him. It was compensation.”</p><p>“It was also kindness,” Jaskier says, refusing to be dissuaded. Geralt shrugs again and Jaskier shakes his head with an amused laugh.</p><p>“It’s fine Geralt, no need to fret, I promise you I won’t write a song about the soft and kind witcher.”</p><p>A smile trembles on previously steady lips and Geralt’s eyes flick to his.</p><p>“Good, can’t have you ruining my reputation.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs loudly then, and knocks against him, a gentle press of shoulder against shoulder, elbow to ribs.</p><p>“Oh no,” Jaskier says, voice low in mock seriousness, “I could never do that to you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They collect their reward from Hollis, a modest sum of gold scrounged up from the local villagers to save their cattle. It is not enough to cover the lengths they went to on their journey, but Geralt makes no comment on it. Perhaps for all the talk of collecting his reward, satisfaction of a job completed is worth more than coin to him. His only response to the reward is to thumb one of the coins and suggests they get a drink.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The tavern is larger than that of the other village, and they set themselves up in a room that is offered to them for free as a consideration for their efforts in aiding the town.</p><p>After a hearty meal and a few drinks, the tavern’s evening patrons begin to slowly trickle through the doors. The noise increases to the dull buzz of conversation, an accumulation of sound from all corners of the room. There is a shared comfort in the way that conversation overlaps when a community gathers, the various discussions forming a sort of humming amalgamation that transforms into something that becomes less about the words spoken, and more about the feeling expressed. All conversations merge to become one, an intimate being of its own, living and breathing, laughing, and sighing.</p><p>Geralt has been quiet company all night, drinking with few comments, his gaze often distracted by some unknown element of his own mind. In any other situation, Jaskier would be slightly annoyed by this, but the drinks are relaxing him and the comforting warmth which spreads through him dulls the frustration.</p><p>“What’s on your mind?” he asks eventually, tapping the rim of his glass with a fingernail.</p><p>Geralt’s gaze stutters and flashes to him. He blinks, disoriented for a moment.</p><p>“It’s nothing,” he says, pauses, and then, “I just don’t know what to do next.”</p><p>Jaskier presses his lips into a thin line and squints at him.</p><p>“Don’t know what to do, or don’t want to do it?”</p><p>“The second one,” Geralt replies with a wry smile.</p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?” Jaskier asks, then cringes as the words fall into the space between them. They feel so futile and empty, so pathetic, but Geralt looks at him appreciatively.</p><p>“No,” Geralt says, “I don’t think so. Actually, tonight I don’t want to think about it at all.”</p><p>Jaskier smiles and raises a glass.</p><p>“Cheers to that,” he says with a grin. Geralt raises his own and they touch, the trill of the glass resonating between them.</p><p>As the evening wears on, the tavern becomes a rowdy place of shouting and laughter, of warm lamp light and elongated shadows cast across walls. A fire roars triumphantly in the hearth as one of the patrons stands on a bench and begins to sing, others joining in with stomping feet and fists slammed against tables. There is a point at which Geralt and Jaskier are swept into this chaos, lost somewhere amidst the crowd of jovial faces. There is dancing, slow and sombre at first before descending into pure disarray. Games are won and lost, and many stories are told which are believed or denied with passion. Jaskier drags out his lute to play after some requests for music, and a chorus of untrained voices follow in his lead.</p><p>Jaskier often catches himself watching Geralt and Geralt watches him back. They exchange smiles, sometimes soft and secret and at other times, vibrant and clear. Jaskier feels a burning need to close the distance between them again, and again, and again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They escape to their room after the fourth rendition of an old folk song, the noise of the tavern swelling behind them as they take their leave. Geralt unties and removes his shirt before he collapses onto the bed with a satisfied sigh. He leans back against the wall, an arm bent so that he can rest his head against it. His chest is bare, and Jaskier lets his gaze drift over the expanse of muscles and scars that traverse his skin. Geralt, whose eyes had been closed, now peeks one eye open to look at Jaskier.</p><p>“You can do more than just look,” he says, voice low.</p><p>Jaskier snorts and moves closer, climbing onto the mattress. It sinks beneath the weight, not made for two people but willing to make an exception. He presses a kiss to Geralt’s jaw and then another to his chest.</p><p>“Stop showing off,” he murmurs, lips against skin.</p><p>Geralt rests a hand against Jaskier’s head, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier leans into the touch for a moment, before he slips away. He goes to pick up his lute and returns to the bed.</p><p>“I can’t believe you’d choose your lute over me,” Geralt says with mild amusement.</p><p>“Just making sure you know where you stand,” Jaskier replies, fingers plucking at the strings. He leans back against Geralt’s chest, the steady thrum of the witcher’s heartbeat against the crown of his head.  Geralt sighs and closes his eyes as Jaskier plays through a few cautious tunes, gently humming some notes alongside them. Geralt’s fingers return to rest against Jaskier’s head, thumb rubbing in soothing, and utterly distracting circles. They lay like that for a while, a vision of contentment echoed by the accompaniment of quiet song.</p><p>“I think it’s finished,” Jaskier says, a revelation in the moment.</p><p>“Hm. What is?”</p><p>“The song I’ve been working on.”</p><p>Geralt hums.</p><p>“Will you show me?”</p><p>“You know I never need an excuse to play,” Jaskier says with a smile. Geralt looks down at him and returns the expression. His face is clean, skin rubbed raw to erase all trace of the journey they travelled. His hair has been tied back but a single strand slips away, touching against his neck, white against pale skin.</p><p>Jaskier hums a few notes, strums a few chords, and begins to play.</p><p>The song is a story. It tells of bravery and strength, the success of battle, but more importantly, it focuses on what are otherwise forgotten moments, gentle glimpses into the calm. There is a truth to it that Jaskier hopes he has captured within the words. It is honest and raw, an insight to what the hero carries beyond the wild tales and daring deeds. It is perhaps not the most exciting of songs, but it is far more genuine than anything he has written. There is a piece of his heart trapped within the lyrics, and he lays it bare for the audience with trust that they will honour the admission.</p><p>When he plays the final chord, the note hovers there, wavering and haunting.</p><p>“I thought you told me you weren’t going to write about the soft and kind witcher,” Geralt says, after a pause, his words a murmur in the air. There is a tinge of humour to his voice, but there is something else there too, something heavier. Jaskier feels a sudden dash of vulnerability and his fingers tighten around the neck of his lute.</p><p>“I never said it was about a witcher,” Jaskier replies.</p><p>Geralt snorts, the warmth of his breath ghosting across Jaskier’s forehead and gently tousling his hair.</p><p>“You didn’t need to.”</p><p>“You don’t like it?” Jaskier asks, chancing a glance upwards.</p><p>Geralt shakes his head. He makes a strange, strangled sound, discomfort perhaps, but it does not reflect displeasure. He swallows and looks down, meeting Jaskier’s eyes, before lips press against Jaskier’s forehead in a gentle kiss.</p><p>“No Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, mouth moving against skin, “I love it.” He pulls back and smiles, a brilliant, genuine smile.</p><p>The exchange is quiet and tender, so unlike most things Geralt does. It is a gentle look, the one that touches Geralt’s eyes sometimes now when he looks at Jaskier. It is something new, although maybe not necessarily new, perhaps just less well obscured. His edges are softening, the walls crumbling.</p><p><em>I love you, </em>Jaskier thinks. The audacity of the thought instantly stuns him. It is wholly incomprehensible and shocking, yet simultaneously manages to align perfectly with something already known. He feels himself tremble, containing the movement to his fingertips clenched in the sheet. He is unable and unwilling to let the words fall from his tongue. The song he had sung is weaved with further meaning and he wonders if it is as clear as it seems.</p><p>Geralt sighs and pulls Jaskier close. Arms encompass him, Jaskier’s cheek pressed against Geralt’s chest. He can feel the heat that rises from the naked skin beneath him and he lets himself sink into the comfort, relaxing against Geralt.</p><p>Geralt watches him with a golden intensity. There are no shutters in his eyes now. They are open and vulnerable, the soul laid bare before him, and Jaskier feels privileged to see it. He tilts his head to kiss the curve of Geralt’s jaw. A press of lips, a gratitude. It is a gift to be so exposed in the presence of another. It is perhaps the most special gift you can give to someone.</p><p>They fall asleep entwined together, with the hum of music in their minds and peace settled in their hearts.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They remain in the village for a few more days, revelling in the comfort of each other.</p><p>When not in their rooms, they can usually be found in the tavern, exchanging stories with travellers and traders who pass through. It is also a reprieve of sorts, and they establish a sense of solace that can be found in building familiarity with a new environment. Although it is only a short amount of time, the idiosyncrasies of the village become easier to identify. They become familiar with the farmer who trudges the same path with his cow every morning, the shady spot beneath the yellow barn that the children gather to eat apples, and the white cat with the black paws that sneaks into the chicken coop. Satisfaction can be so easily drawn from predictable consistencies like these.</p><p>The days pass in a strange way. There is happiness sure, contentment prevailing, but there is also a sense of urgency to the matter, not forced as such but desperate. It is the reminder that what this is, is only temporary. Jaskier catches it sometimes in a distant glance, the way Geralt’s eyes wander briefly, or his forehead creases. He feels it sometimes too, in the skip of a heartbeat, the slight hitch in his chest, a shallow breath or a tangle of thoughts passing across his mind. No matter how content they are, disruption looms ahead, ominous on the horizon like storm clouds in summer.  </p><p>“We could stay like this forever,” Jaskier says one afternoon. He is propped up on his elbows which rest either side of Geralt’s naked torso. The window above them is open and the afternoon sun drifts into the room, a warm colour that spins a gilded hue over all that it touches. A handful of dust motes spiral within the beams of light, and a gentle breeze spills into the room accompanied by the sweet scent of fresh hay from the nearby farms.</p><p>Jaskier traces a finger across Geralt’s navel, lips curling in a smug grin when the skin trembles and shivers at his touch. He leans forward and exhales a kiss against Geralt’s hip.</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt murmurs, content. A rough hand cups Jaskier’s jaw. Eyes meet, adoration coalesces with arousal. “I could look at you like this forever,” he says, voice low.</p><p>Jaskier folds both of his arms so that they cross against Geralt’s stomach, chin thrust forward. He can feel Geralt’s heartbeat thrum beneath him.</p><p>“Why don’t we then?” he asks.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Why don’t we just stay here. Why does this have to end?” It is somewhat petulant – a refusal of the obvious, but Jaskier feels compelled to say it anyway.</p><p>“Right now, I’m not sure why,” Geralt says. His thumb presses into the corner of Jaskier’s mouth and Jaskier opens his lips, a tongue swiping out to pass across the intruding finger. He bites down gently, playfully, and lets it go, marvelling at the flush that startles against Geralt’s skin. </p><p>In a swift movement Jaskier pulls himself upwards, capturing Geralt’s mouth in a deep, leisurely, kiss. When he moves away, it is only just far enough to see Geralt’s face, a mere breath between them, noses touching. He can feel Geralt’s arousal against him.</p><p>“I could give you many reasons to stay,” Jaskier says, shifting his hips suggestively. Geralt inhales a stuttered breath, pupils wide. A hand moves to grip Jaskier’s shoulder, fingers digging into skin.</p><p>“Do your best,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier obliges.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Jaskier wakes the next day, he finds Geralt sitting on the edge of the bed. He is dressed but unmoving, a statue, silent and still, peppered in dappled morning light.</p><p>Jaskier sits up and moves towards him, arms enveloping him from behind. He presses a kiss to his back, to the skin between his shoulder blades. The muscles tense at first, then ease, as Geralt turns to greet him with a kiss of his own, pressed at first to the forehead, then against his mouth, soft and pliant.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Jaskier mumbles against his lips. “You’re up early.”</p><p>“I’m always up early.”</p><p>“Don’t deflect.”</p><p>Geralt looks away. There is a sadness to his gaze that Jaskier had not noticed at first, too preoccupied with the warmth of exchanged kisses.</p><p>“Come,” Geralt says, “Get ready, I need to talk with you.”</p><p>It’s strange, the immediate effect that such a simple sentence can have. A moment that is pleasant and comforting can instantly turn to bitter ash. The words are spoken gently, but Jaskier feels as though they have seared into his very soul. He knows that such words only preclude pain.</p><p>Jaskier gathers the sheets around him, bunching them in a curled fist.</p><p>“Is everything okay?”</p><p>Geralt nods, stiff. “Meet me downstairs,” he says, before he turns and leaves the room.</p><p>Jaskier sits on the bed for a moment. The warm morning sun does little to soothe the chill that now creeps across his skin.  He breathes out slowly through his nose and collects his thoughts.</p><p>When Jaskier finally proceeds down the stairs, he finds Geralt standing by a table, hands clasped behind his back. His thumb rubs soothing circles into his palm, an anxious motion. It sets Jaskier’s mind tumbling with a thousand possibilities.</p><p>“Geralt,” he says, trepidation evident in the tremble of his tongue.</p><p>Geralt turns to look at him. There is nobody in the tavern this early, even the innkeep and his wife are still asleep in one of the rooms. They stand there together, alone.</p><p>“I thought it might be easier if…” Geralt trails off, shaking his head, “Never mind.” He sighs. Eyes glance up.</p><p>“Jaskier, I’m sorry, but I need to leave,” Geralt says. His mouth curves downwards, set in a resolute sadness. <em>Ah</em>, Jaskier thinks distantly, <em>of course</em>. It was expected, but he had hoped…just not so soon. Still, Jaskier finds himself desperately thinking of his options.</p><p>“I can come with you?” Jaskier supplies. A hand comes up to touch against his jaw. Jaskier tilts his head, kissing the warm skin of Geralt’s palm pressed against his cheek.</p><p>“No, not this time. This journey is for me alone,” Geralt says.</p><p>“Were my reasons to stay not enough?” Jaskier asks. He means to say it in jest, but there is a bitterness that underlines the teasing. He can’t help the way a misplaced sense of abandonment and inadequacy sneaks into his tone.</p><p>“This isn’t about you.”</p><p>“Shame,” Jaskier says, offhand, “The best things tend to be.”</p><p>Geralt snorts and shakes his head.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, “You’re right.”</p><p>They stand there for a few quiet moments. The air hangs heavy between them, a mist of undisclosed words, unspoken feelings, a cumulation of everything all together at once. It vibrates within the space with a restless energy, unable to find a release.</p><p>Finally, it is Geralt who unsettles the silence.</p><p>“I’ll find you again.”</p><p>Jaskier nods.</p><p>“I know,” he says, “This is like an interlude. All the epic romances need one.”</p><p>“Is that what you’d call us? An epic romance?”</p><p>“Oh no,” Jaskier says with a wink, “Mediocre at best.”</p><p>“Speak for yourself,” Geralt mumbles as Jaskier laughs. He looks up at Geralt and his smile falls to something more serious.</p><p>“Don’t be gone too long,” he says.</p><p>Geralt makes a strange sound and pulls him close. He smells like horse and leather and Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment, letting himself lean into the embrace. When they separate, Geralt’s jaw is set, determination steeling his eyes.</p><p>“Good luck,” Jaskier says quietly, “Don’t die.”</p><p>He reaches out to find Geralt’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Geralt’s eyes soften at the action and he returns the motion, pressing his palm</p><p>Jaskier looks at him. He looks at the slightly crooked nose, the bristling beard, the freckles across his skin. He notices the wisp of hair that is caught against his eyelashes, watches the lilt of his lips, the pink scars that run their course. But most of all, he finds himself caught in Geralt’s eyes, the eyes that he knows so well. Eyes that swirl with gold and hues of amber, bright eyes, vivid and expressive and brimming with a myriad of unspoken emotions.</p><p>Eyes that seem to contain the entire universe.</p><p>Then the moment passes and Geralt is gone. The door to the tavern swings shut behind him, signifying his exit.</p><p>Jaskier, alone, exhales a breath from the depths of his chest. He curls his hands into a fist and then relaxes his fingers, observing the red welts made from his fingernails digging into his palm, the indents of crescent moons.</p><p>He is not one to dwell on sadness, but he closes his eyes and allows himself the briefest of moments to sit with the ache in his chest, just for a short while.</p><p>When he opens his eyes again, they shine, determined, and set towards the future.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>epilogue</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It is warm in the tavern as Jaskier’s voice floats above the pleasant hum of conversation. Faces turn to listen, eyes curious, mouths tilted up in gentle smiles. Knees bounce and fingers tap the rhythm of the song against well-worn wooden tables. No voices join the song though, as none but Jaskier know the words.</p><p>A whisper of leaves spiral into the tavern as the door opens and closes and a hooded figure enters. The man hovers by the door for a moment, concealed within shadow, before he steps out against the dim light of a nearby lamp and settles himself at an empty table in the corner.</p><p>Jaskier watches the man as he sings, but his words never falter. His fingers continue to strum the lute, caressing the strings with care. There is a lull in the hum of conversation as most discussions have now been whittled into silence, consumed by the music. The barkeep has his elbow resting on the counter, dirty rag thrown over his shoulder as he too watches and listens.</p><p>Jaskier casts his gaze out across his captivated audience, feeling satisfaction settle in his stomach. The moon beams a brilliant light over his face, accenting the shadows of his nose and jaw, as though it has made a deliberate choice to illuminate him for this performance, highlighting him as the world slows to accommodate this moment. </p><p>The song is nearing its end and Jaskier lets his voice soften, humming the last few notes with a slow stum of the final chord. There is a pause, the static tension before a storm, and then the tavern erupts with noise. Chairs screech on the floor, thrown backwards as people stand to applaud.</p><p>The sound encompasses Jaskier like the warmth of a rug on the coldest winter night. He tucks his lute beneath his arm and stands, surveying the room with a gracious hand raised towards the sky. The pale light of the moon catches in his fingertips and he holds it in his grasp; victorious.</p><p>The figure sitting alone at his table stands and the hood falls from his face. He watches Jaskier, all sharp teeth and sharp eyes as his hands clap together, a heavy, steady rhythm. The soft glow of a nearby lamp mellows the rough skin of his stubbled jaw, gliding over the memory of scars as it settles deep in golden irises. Jaskier feels his heart falter and he swallows - even within a room full of people cheering, Geralt easily snatches his attention.</p><p>A small quirk of Geralt’s lips lifts the wind-burned corners of his mouth as he smiles, a hint of amusement swallowed by overwhelmingly vulnerable pride.</p><p>Jaskier meets his eyes and returns the smile. He holds on to the words of gratitude for later, saving them for quiet rooms and hushed voices, for lips pressed to the flutter of heartbeats and for palms splayed across naked skin.</p><p>For now, he inhales, breathing in his triumph.</p><p>He turns his gaze to the crowd and bows.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>woah oh my goodness this fic has been in the works for a good amount of time and I think this is potentially the longest thing I have ever written. I know its very self indulgent of me to write extremely-soft-somewhat-ooc-geralt but honestly? I just love him and I have no regrets! hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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